The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Pearl became suddenly, acutely aware of how alone they were, here in the close confines of his lodgings, how near he stood. Not another person in the world knew where they were. She continued to drown in his gaze, her heart thudding in slow, heavy strokes.

  "Do you?" Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears and she felt herself swaying toward him.

  "Very much." The spark in his eyes flamed into something far more intense, though they held a question, as well.

  Without stopping to think how inappropriate, how foolhardy, how—anything—this was, conscious only of her own need, Pearl tipped her face up for his kiss.

  His lips lowered to hers, first to gently brush, then to explore and finally to claim. She responded, still without thought, reveling in his strength, his masculine scent, the sense of being cherished. Instinctively, her hands sought his shoulders, while his clasped her waist. His mouth on hers felt like heaven—like something she'd waited for all her life.

  The one or two kisses a calf-eyed suitor had stolen in a shadowed alcove when she was seventeen had been nothing like this. This was real, a kiss between adults—and it stirred a sharp longing in her for something more.

  As though sensing her longing, he tightened his grip on her waist, deepening his kiss, then slid one hand slowly, sensuously up her back until his bare fingers rested at the sensitive nape of her neck.

  Pearl allowed her own hands to wander as well, skimming along his broad shoulders and upper arms, then back up until she threaded her own ungloved fingers through his disordered dark curls. His slight moan elicited a similar one from her own throat, a sound she vaguely identified as a growl of desire.

  Spanning the back of her neck with one hand, he slid the other back down to her waist, then lower, pulling the length of her body against his. A bulge in his nether regions pressed against the very heart of her desire, igniting a need she'd never known she had—a hot, burning need to become one with this man.

  When he moved the hand at her nape around to cup the swell of her breast, it never occurred to her to protest. Instead, she shifted to give him better access. She tilted her head back and he trailed kisses down her throat, to the high collar of her gown, then back to her lips. He released her breast to unfasten the top button of her bodice.

  A passion like none she'd ever imagined roared up, threatening to consume her—consume them both. She wanted this, more than anything she'd ever wanted. This was right. This was real. This was—

  "I want you, Purdy," he murmured against her lips.

  The alias was like a splash of cold water, tempering her ardor with a sudden chill of reality. What on earth was she doing?

  Though her body thrummed an insistant protest, she forced herself to pull away from him. "I . . . I'm sorry," she panted. "I never—"

  He released her at once, self-awareness, even guilt, fighting with the desire in his eyes. "Oh, Lord. Purdy, I'm sorry." He raked a hand through his hair, making it stand wildly on end in a way she found oddly endearing. "I've subjected you to the very thing you were escaping.

  She couldn't suppress a smile. "You were no more subjecting me than I was subjecting you, so you need not apologize. Believe me, what I escaped was nothing like that." True enough! "Still, I fear this is . . . unwise."

  He swallowed visibly, though his eyes seemed to devour her—despairingly, she thought. "Unwise indeed. First thing tomorrow, I'll begin making inquiries about a position for you, and for a respectable place for you to stay while we search. And I do apologize, Purdy. I . . . I knew better."

  "So did I," she replied, pulling her gaze away from his smoldering one before it could reignite what she'd so reluctantly broken off. "Let's . . . not speak of it any further."

  She felt rather than saw him nod. "What say you to some dinner and an early night? Tomorrow we must accomplish more than we managed today." Moving away from her with obvious reluctance, he went to the sideboard and began pulling out the makings of a simple meal.

  Though her eyes followed him hungrily, Pearl seated herself at the table. "Is there something I can do to help?"

  He turned and almost caught her staring. She had to will her color not to rise. "Do you think you can shell these peas?" he asked, clearly remembering her clumsiness with the orange that morning.

  She chuckled, finally getting her unruly passions under control—for the moment. "As you've guessed, I've had little experience in the kitchen, but I believe I can manage to shell peas without doing myself an injury."

  For a few minutes they worked in companionable silence, she shelling the peas into a pot for boiling while he unwrapped a couple of meatrolls he'd bought in the market earlier. Once the peas were boiling, he deftly peeled the remaining orange from breakfast.

  "The bread isn't as fresh as it was last night, but it should still be edible," he commented, cutting a few thick slices. "Now."

  With a flourish, he set out bread, cheese, meatrolls, orange sections and the bowl of peas, as well as two plates of fine china that again made Pearl wonder about this man of contrasts. Belatedly, she realized that she could at least have set the table while he worked. Two days among the working class had not been enough to cure her habitual assumption of rank, it seemed.

  "Thank you," she said graciously, in an attempt to compensate for her uselessness. "It looks wonderful."

  Though the fare was as simple as she'd had, devoid of French sauces or elegant garnish, Pearl found it delicious. It was said that hunger was the best sauce, she reflected—not that she'd had the chance to put it to the test before. And more than one sort of hunger was at work here.

  Even with the table between them, she could feel a physical link to this man humming through her blood. Though she knew it was madness, she wanted nothing more than a repeat of that kiss, that embrace . . . The sooner she left Luke St. Clair's company, the better, obviously!

  Partly to distract herself, she asked, "Last night you mentioned that your last employer had been generous in his will. What sort of work did you do for him?" The question was more blunt than she'd intended, but this might be her last chance to assuage her curiosity about him.

  He took his time chewing and swallowing a bite of meatroll before answering. "I, ah, tutored his son briefly, then worked as his personal manservant. He preferred to have few people about him, so I was able to make myself indispensable."

  She forced herself to focus on his words rather than his lips. His answer seemed reasonable, but she had the distinct feeling he was telling her less than the truth. Only fair, she supposed, considering how little he knew about her. "And you've lived here since he died?"

  "More or less. I can pick up a living here, of sorts. In addition, I can occasionally help people whose lives have been destroyed, directly or indirectly, by the nobility."

  "Like your mother's," she said softly. No, she certainly did not want him to know the full truth about her.

  Though he frowned in apparent surprise, he nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose I'm still trying to repay her, to avenge her, in the only way I can."

  Avenge. It seemed an odd word choice. "She must have been a remarkable woman."

  Now he smiled, with a wistfulness that tugged at her heart. "She was. A true lady in everything but birth."

  Pearl caught the implication that her lack of noble birth elevated his mother even higher in his eyes. Luke's clear animosity toward her class pricked her pride, putting her on the defensive. "Perhaps birth—or lack thereof—has little to do with nobility of heart," she suggested.

  The wistfulness in his eyes changed to something more cynical. "If anything, noble birth seems to preclude nobility of heart, at least in my experience."

  Pearl shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to frame an argument, but he spoke again before she could. "You are a perfect example, Purdy. I've never met anyone, except perhaps my mother, who so clearly evinced nobility of spirit. Yet you're as common as I am, are you not?"

  She swallowed, trapped. "My . . . my mother was a gentleman's d
aughter," she offered as a nod to the truth. She couldn't bring herself to say more, dreading the condemnation in his eyes.

  To her surprise, his smile forgave her—and caused her pulse to race again. "Mine may have been as well," he admitted. "But the true nobility, the peers of the realm, are in a class apart—and they flaunt it whenever they can, to the detriment of those they consider beneath them."

  Though his words were harsh, his eyes were not. They held hers with a gentle seeking that snatched her breath. Though she wanted to deny his words, she responded only with an uncertain nod. He seemed to consider it enough, for he reached across the table to take her hand in his—again, bare flesh touching bare flesh. Her senses pulsed with awareness.

  "This may sound trite," he said, still holding her gaze and her hand, "but I believe we are kindred spirits, you and I. Perhaps it was fate that threw us together after all."

  Pearl's heart began to hammer so that it seemed impossible he would not hear it. Fate? She didn't believe in fate . . . did she? And how could hers, Lady Pearl's, lie with this man's? Impossible! But the idea appealed to her on a primal level, even while her reason told her it was absurd.

  When she did not answer, Luke rose, her hand still in his. Mesmerized, Pearl stood as well, their bodies only inches apart. This time, when he took her in his arms, she would not call a halt, she decided. People would believe the worst anyway—why should she not have this moment of bliss?

  Instead, he brought her hand to his lips with the courtliness of royalty.

  "You've shown me a side of life I'd nearly forgotten," he told her, then touched her fingers with his kiss—a gentle brush that sent flame licking along every nerve in her body. "Thank you."

  She managed to summon a smile, when what she wanted was to feel his lips, his hands, upon her. "And you have shown me a side of the human condition that I sorely needed to learn about. For that, as well as your unselfish help to a stranger in need, I thank you."

  For an instant his grip tightened, and she thought he would pull her back into his arms after all. She was ready, more than ready . . . He released her and bowed.

  "A noble spirit indeed. But even so strong a spirit as yours must be tired after a day like today. Rest, and we'll start fresh in the morning." He turned from her to stack their plates and cutlery in the washtub.

  She knew she should offer to help, but now that the moment of madness had passed, she fully understood just how dangerous it was for her to get too close to this man. Instead, she went to the divan and unfolded the sheets, spreading them out in preparation for another night on its unyielding surface. When she finished, she turned to find him regarding her with a smile and a steaming pitcher.

  "I was remiss last night, but here is hot water and a basin, should you wish to wash before retiring. My apologies for not thinking to offer them before—I am unused to guests."

  "Pray don't mention it," she said quickly. "But thank you." A wash sounded heavenly. "I'll . . . see you in the morning." Even as she spoke, however, she knew her words were false. By morning she must be gone, or she would be lost forever.

  * * *

  Luke settled himself in bed, intending to thoroughly examine the bewildering mix of emotions that had assailed him over the past few hours. He needed to analyze his feelings, decide just how important Purdy had become to him in one short day and evening. Instead of a dispassionate analysis, however, he found himself reliving those amazing few moments of passion.

  He'd been intimate with a number of women, of course, but this was different somehow. Though Purdy's inexperience had been evident, if anything that only added to her appeal, exciting him far more than the practiced caresses of an opera dancer or a straying wife. He'd felt a connection with Purdy, a need that went beyond mere physical arousal. A rightness.

  And it scared him.

  For the first time, he allowed himself to toy with the possibility of a permanent attachment, something he'd always assumed was impossible for him. But perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't.

  Purdy fit into his lifestyle, his role here in Seven Dials, with remarkable ease. She possessed skills he lacked, skills which complemented his own. Of course, she still knew nothing of his usual methods, and he knew without asking her that she would disapprove, even be shocked.

  He felt sure, though, that he could make her understand. And if he couldn't, then perhaps, with her help, thievery might become less necessary to achieve his ends. With the delectable memory of her body and lips pressed to his, he drifted off, to dream of an improbably rosy future with Purdy at his side, day and night.

  The sun was well risen when he awoke, the first time in ages he could remember sleeping past dawn. Luke stretched and smiled, remembering the day—and evening—just past, his pleasant dreams, and his hopes for the future. He would speak to her today, he decided. Discover whether his hope was justified. Quickly he rose, washed and dressed, before going to listen at his bedroom door for any sound of Purdy stirring.

  Silence. No doubt she'd needed sleep even more than he had. After all, she'd not only traipsed over half of London at his side, but had healed two children yesterday.

  Again he smiled. Valiant, self-effacing Purdy, so unaware of her own talents and charms. She would bring out the best in him, if any such thing existed.

  Cautiously, he cracked open the door, anticipating the sight of her in tousled, innocent sleep.

  The divan was empty.

  Frowning, he stepped into the room, sweeping it with a glance before striding to the window to draw back the curtain, chasing away the shadows. Her sheets were neatly folded at the end of the divan, and a quick check revealed that the door was unlocked.

  She was gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Pearl stretched, reveling in the luxury of her own soft down mattress when she awakened after only a few hours' sleep. No one in the household knew she had returned as yet.

  After slipping out of Luke's lodgings shortly after midnight, she had made her way back to Mayfair. The fog, combined with the necessity of hiding every time anyone approached, had made the walk of little over a mile take more than two hours. On reaching Oakshire House, she'd had to be even more cautious to avoid waking the servants who slept in the kitchen as she tiptoed past them.

  Eventually she had achieved her own bedchamber, with none the wiser. At any moment, however, someone was sure to . . .

  At a slight sound behind her, Pearl rolled onto her side to see Hettie emerging from the hidden servant door, a dejected look on her pert face. The motion on the bed drew her eye, however, and for a long moment she stared, stunned, at the figure there. Then she ran forward with a glad cry.

  "My lady! Oh, my lady! You're back! I'd near despaired of ever . . . How did you . . . ? When . . . ?" The questions tumbled out of her mouth too quickly for completion.

  Pearl sat up to return her abigail's embrace, pleased that her first welcome should be such a happy one. "Yes, Hettie, I'm back, and perfectly safe, I assure you. What a lot I have to tell you! But first, pray, lower your voice and tell me what story has been put about to account for my absence."

  Hettie gave her one more fierce hug, then sat back to examine her mistress's face. A small nod evidenced her satisfaction with what she saw there, and then she began. "When I couldn't find you at the Mountheaths', then heard you'd fled the place, I didn't know what to think. I assumed at first someone had recognized you, but no one mentioned the Lady Pearl having been there."

  "Fanny Mountheath saw me and remarked the resemblance," Pearl explained, "so I left before she could assemble a crowd, which would have guaranteed my discovery."

  "So I was nearly right, then. Anyway, I stayed for another hour hoping you'd return, then when you didn't I spent most of the night searching the area."

  Pearl took her hand. "That was dangerous, Hettie. You might have been set upon by footpads, or worse!"

  Hettie shrugged. "I didn't think of that at the time, and no harm came to me. I didn't dare venture beyond Mayfair, ho
wever, and I finally came back here, but you hadn't come home, either." She paused, questioningly.

  "I'll tell you everything later." Well, perhaps not everything. "First, I need to know what has transpired here."

  "I tried to get in without being seen, but the house was in an uproar on account of your disappearance, and I was spotted and called to face the Duke and Duchess. His grace was most upset, I fear, and her grace as well—though for fear of scandal, I'd warrant, rather than out of true concern for you." Hettie's dislike of the Duchess was evident.

  Pearl sighed. "My father returned home, then? Oh, dear. I never meant to cause him distress—nor you, Hettie. I'm sorry you were subjected to the Duchess' wrath, as well."

  "I told them you'd gone to visit a friend, but that I couldn't remember who. I fear I wasn't very convincing, for they didn't believe me. His grace was certain you'd been kidnapped, while the Duchess seemed to think you'd planned the whole thing to discredit her. I was dismissed before I could discover more."

  "Dismissed?" Pearl was startled. "From their presence, you mean?"

  "No, from their employ," Hettie replied sadly. "I am to leave for my mother's house today. Her grace insisted that I had failed in my duties and could no longer be useful here."

  Pearl snorted. "Well that, at least, will soon be rectified. What story have they told the world? That I was kidnapped?"

  Hettie shook her head. "It's what's being whispered belowstairs, and may even have leaked outside the house, but their graces' explanation is the 'absurd' one I offered—that you're visiting a friend."

  "And that's the explanation we'll maintain," declared Pearl decisively. Her original idea of claiming to be ruined would only serve to ensure Hettie's dismissal. In addition, it might be dangerous for Luke, should her father insist on investigating.

  Luke would have discovered by now that she was gone, she realized. What might he be feeling? No doubt he would believe she had panicked and fled . . . which was not so very far from the truth. She realized Hettie was waiting for her to continue, so reined in her errant thoughts.