The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Polly nodded. "She's the one told me it weren't so bad, but I've seen her crying. And sometimes she comes back with bruises that Twitchell didn't give her."

  Quinn's determination to do something for those unfortunate girls increased. "I can't believe there are so many men who would pay to abuse such young girls," she whispered, then remembered what that odious woman, Sally, had said on that subject during her own terrifying experience at the Scarlet Hawk.

  "Oh, aye, there are, milady," Polly assured her as well. "Some what would surprise you— real swells and all."

  "Gentlemen, do you mean?" She wasn't sure why that should seem so much worse, but it did.

  Again, Polly nodded. "Some o' the girls, they've worked at being favorites with the nobs. They pay more, though they can be just as mean."

  One or two of the kitchen staff appeared interested in the whispered exchange, so Quinn only sighed instead of speaking her mind. "Have you seen your brother?" she asked instead. "Mrs. Walsh was to look into a position in the stables for him."

  "Oh, aye, milady! He started last night. Fair tickled he is, too—he's always been horse-mad."

  "I'm pleased to hear that." And she was. Now two children were safe from the villainous Mr. Twitchell. "You'll let me, or Mrs. Walsh, know if either of you you needs anything, won't you?"

  "Aye, we will. And thank ye, milady." Polly bobbed a curtsey and turned back to her pots and pans.

  Quinn left the kitchen thoughtfully, her relief at rescuing Polly and Gobby tempered by her anger at the other things she'd learned. Yes, it was worse for so-called gentlemen to patronize young girls —mere children. Those men, by virtue of their exalted positions in Society, were supposed to be setting an example for the lower orders, as she understood the English social hierarchy.

  Perhaps it was time someone reminded them of that. Mounting the steps to her room, she began formulating a plan —one that would put the fear of God into those depraved "gentlemen" while at the same time funding a school that would remove those poor girls from their clutches forever.

  * * *

  "That was most entertaining, and educational besides," said Quinn upon leaving the Egyptian Hall later that afternoon. "Thank you for bringing me . . . Marcus."

  Marcus smiled down at his bride, pleased that she was calling him by his given name again. She had surprised him with her knowledge of the various artifacts they had seen. He had assumed an American education would be inferior to that of an Englishwoman of her class, but clearly that was not the case.

  "You're quite welcome, of course, but I'm sure I enjoyed it as much as you did. Not having had opportunity to fight Napoleon's troops myself, I confess I developed rather a fascination for the Corsican from afar. That portion of the exhibit alone was worth the price of admission for me."

  "I'm happy to know you do not feel you have wasted the afternoon, after spending your morning on my behalf as well." And she did look happy, he thought —as happy as he had seen her. He would love to see her even happier.

  "This morning was no waste either, as I hope you'll agree when you see the cattle I've arranged to have sent round. We should get back, in fact, as they are to arrive at three o'clock, and it's nearly that now." He handed her up into his phaeton, sprang up beside her and whipped up the horses to bear them home.

  Home.

  Odd, but the word seemed to fit better than it ever had during the years he'd shared that house with Peter and Anthony. Why was that? It wasn't as though Quinn had yet had time to stamp any sort of feminine touch upon it.

  "Have you given any thought to how you'd like to redecorate your room?" he asked.

  She seemed surprised by the question, but answered readily. "Yes, as it happens I made some notes on it yesterday."

  "So that's what you were doing before dinner." He couldn't resist teasing her, fully aware that she'd stayed in her room to avoid him. At least she had put the time to good use. He'd half feared she might be planning another escape.

  They passed Albemarle Street and Grillon's Hotel, where a pair of beggars were being shooed away from the entrance. "What think you of the state of the poor and homeless in London?" Quinn asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  "I think—" Caught off guard, Marcus nearly blurted out the truth, that something needed to be done to help them, but caught himself in time. "That is, there are various societies trying to improve their lot. Certainly, I'd like to see fewer of them."

  Quinn frowned at him. "The societies, or the poor?"

  "The poor, of course. Can't say I've ever given them much thought, to tell the truth." He mimicked Robert's sententious tone.

  "No, I suppose not," she said dryly. "One rarely sees them in Mayfair, after all. And when one does, they are doubtless rounded up and sent back to their accustomed haunts."

  She was referring, he knew, to the day they'd met and the boys he had since befriended. This was dangerous ground, so he merely said, "They are safer there, surely. Less likely to attract the attention of the watchmen."

  A glance showed her regarding him with distaste and disappointment, so he added, against his better judgement, "I'm not completely callous, you know. My taxes help the poor, and I've given to more than one charity in my time."

  "Of course."

  They turned onto Grosvenor Street then, so he returned to their prior topic, eager to abandon the riskier one. "You should just have time to change before the horses arrive. You did say your maid found something suitable?"

  The irritation faded from her expressive face. "Yes, she was able to turn one of my gowns into a very passable habit. Will I try the mounts here, or will we go to the Park?"

  "That will be entirely up to you." He breathed a cautious sigh of relief that they were back to a safe subject, and one that animated her. Pulling the phaeton to a halt, he jumped down to assist her to the pavement.

  "I'll take the phaeton round to the mews," he told her. "Meet me there, as that is where the horses are to be brought."

  Nodding, she hurried into the house, her step light. Marcus watched her go, admiring her figure from the rear, before urging his pair forward again with a smile. If they could just avoid all topics to do with the Saint, he thought they would deal very well together. And perhaps tonight—

  No, he would not think that far ahead. For now, it was enough simply to enjoy the moment.

  Quinn arrived in the mews just as the men from Tattersall's appeared, leading four horses. "Excellent timing, my dear," Marcus greeted her, then turned back to regard the new arrivals with a frown. "Four? But I only selected three this morning."

  "Aye," said the man he had dealt with earlier. "This one came in just after you'd left. Frisky, she is, but such a beauty I thought your lady might like to see her."

  Indeed, the dainty chestnut mare had the cleanest lines and prettiest head Marcus had seen, but there was a fire in her liquid brown eye that bespoke unusual spirit. He turned to Quinn, to find her regarding the new mare with a rapt expression.

  "She's lovely— remarkably like my Tempest back home. Though the others are quite nice as well, of course," she added, as though fearful of offending him.

  He chuckled. "You never did tell me how experienced a rider you are, so I chose the gentlest mount they had—" he indicated the bay gelding—"as well as two others that seemed a bit livelier. Look them all over and decide which you'd like to try first."

  Quinn obediently examined each horse in turn. The bay stood placidly as she stroked his flank, while the other gelding, a paler chestnut than the mare, snorted but did not shy. The gray mare Marcus had chosen merely nodded her head.

  When Quinn approached the new chestnut mare, she skittered sideways a step, then threw up her head, tossing her golden mane. "Now, then," Quinn said firmly. Marcus's eyebrows rose with respect. She clearly knew what she was about.

  The mare seemed to recognize the authority in her tone as well, calming noticeably, though her eyes were still wary. "Is she broken to sidesaddle?" Quinn asked the man hol
ding her.

  "Only just," he admitted. "There's no denying she'll need a bit of work, milady. We had a mite of trouble getting her here."

  The mare's ears flattened as the man spoke, then she swung around and nipped at him.

  "Here! None of that!" He brought up his crop to sting her sensitive nose, but Quinn grabbed his arm before the blow fell.

  "No, don't!" she cried. "It's clear she's been mistreated. More of the same will only make her more skittish. Has she a name?"

  The man shook his head. "The gent what sold her to us only called her Trouble, but I think that was because she wouldn't take to his wife."

  "I'll call her Tempest, then, in memory of home."

  Marcus stepped forward, startled by her decisive tone. "Hadn't you better try her—and perhaps one of the others— before naming her?" He'd known difficult horses before, and this one would be a handful, no doubt about it.

  But Quinn only smiled at him. "If you insist."

  Once the chestnut mare was saddled, Marcus tossed Quinn to her back, bracing himself to catch her if the mare pitched her off. But though she sidled a bit, she didn't buck or rear.

  "If you'd care to join me, my lord, I suggest we take her to the Park to try her paces."

  Over the next half hour, Quinn showed herself to be an excellent rider —one of the best Marcus had seen, in fact. Whenever the spunky mare threatened to misbehave, she was able to bring her into line with a word and a touch, never once resorting to crop or heels. It was as though she spoke the horse's language.

  He watched appreciatively as Quinn put the mare through her paces, making what he knew was quite difficult look easy. Would his bride never cease to amaze him? He rather hoped not.

  When they returned home he purchased the mare for her without question, then congratulated her on her choice once the men from Tattersall's had gone.

  "I admit I was skeptical, but you and Tempest seem made for each other," he said as they entered the house, she having reluctantly left her new mount in the stables. "I hope she will make London a happier place for you."

  Quinn was still flushed with triumph and exertion, looking positively beautiful, he thought —so vibrant and alive. "I believe she will. Thank you."

  The gratitude shining in her eyes seemed genuine. It stirred his blood unexpectedly, and far more profoundly than the past half hour's appreciative observation of her form while riding.

  "You're more than welcome, of course. I only wish I knew of more ways to make you happy," he said, drawing closer to her.

  She gazed up at him, her green eyes going wide. "If I think of any, I shall be sure to let you know." Her voice sounded rather breathless. Then she blinked, glancing about the hall. The footman who had opened the door to them still stood there, only a few yards away.

  "Shall we go up to change before dinner?" Marcus suggested, not taking his eyes from hers. At her nod, he extended his arm and she took it, still bemusedly watching him.

  As they mounted the stairs, he could see understanding of what was to come dawning in her eyes. He saw no fear there, only anticipation of another new experience.

  He was determined not to disappoint her.

  CHAPTER 12

  By the time they reached the upper hallway, Quinn felt lost in a dizzying haze. It was as though the exhilaration of riding again had swept away rational thought, leaving only sensation —and she wanted more. Caught in a current she hadn't known was there, she was now powerless to resist it, or even to want to.

  "It occurs to me that you have not yet seen my chamber," Marcus said huskily as they drew level with hers. "Would you care to?"

  She could only nod, her brain apparently having abdicated, leaving her wayward body in charge.

  Her hand still on his arm, Marcus opened the next door and escorted her inside. This room was similar to her own only in its masculine tone. Furnished in deep blue and pale gray, it welcomed her, from the overstuffed chairs to the exquisite landscapes on the walls . . . to the large four-poster bed near the window.

  "Perhaps this is more to your taste than Anthony's decor?" he murmured, watching her.

  "Yes. Yes, it is," she responded, her voice like a sigh. Somehow she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from the bed. Would he—? Would they—?

  Softly he closed the door, then turned to face her. "I'd love to share yet another remarkable experience with you," he said, reaching up to trace one finger down her cheek. "I believe you will find it most pleasant."

  She pulled her attention away from the bed to meet his eyes, and was immediately lost in their deep blue depths. "Like the brandy?" she whispered.

  His smile was tender, making her feel oddly cherished. "Better than brandy." He made it a promise.

  With a sense of inevitability that she couldn't seem to want to fight, she took what she knew was an irrevocable step, beyond which there would be no returning. "Show me."

  A flame kindled behind his eyes and he lowered his mouth to hers, pulling her gently against him. She responded instantly, aware that she had been living for this moment since she had broken away from him two nights ago. No, since that moment at the docks. Now it was as though the intervening days had never happened, the same madness that had seized her then back in full force.

  This time, when her mind tried to warn her of folly, she ruthlessly silenced it. She didn't care. Nothing else mattered right now. Nothing but this.

  His hands moved up her back, unfastening the hooks of her gown one by one. For an instant she faltered, nearly retreating from his kiss, but he sensed it at once. His hands stopped and he plundered her mouth more deeply, exploring her depths with his tongue. She melted against him again, and when his fingers resumed their work, she made no protest.

  He drew back then, but only slightly, kissing her temples, her ears, her throat, as he deftly worked her dress down her shoulders. She shifted slightly to help him, only then realizing that her own hands had somehow found their way around his broad back.

  She had to release him long enough to extricate herself from her sleeves, and then her hands were free again, to do some exploring of their own. His coat was fashionably tight-fitting, but she was able to peel him out of it, even as he went to work on her corset laces. His cravat was a puzzle, however, threatening to delay her long enough for her brain to start functioning again.

  Once that happened, she feared she would never go through with this—and at the moment she desperately wanted to continue.

  He chuckled, deep in his throat, at her fumbling efforts, and the sound resonated through her, stimulating already-sensitive nerve endings to a higher pitch. "Allow me," he murmured against her lips, and skillfully divested himself of both cravat and shirt, seemingly without effort.

  Never before had she had opportunity to skim her hands over a bare male torso, and she took full advantage of the chance, delighting in the smooth hardness of his chest, shoulders and arms, roughened in spots by crisp, dark hair. Suddenly she understood what inspired artists and sculptors to reproduce the male form. "You're beautiful," she whispered.

  He chuckled again. "Surely, that was my line?" he asked. "But I thank you. I'm not sure anyone has ever told me that before."

  Though she felt herself blushing, Quinn smiled up at him, amazed by her own audacity. "Then they should have, for it's quite true." The concept of male beauty was new to her, but she found herself embracing it fully.

  To her surprise, Marcus seemed to color slightly himself. "I'd like to appreciate you as thoroughly. It is time we came to know each other completely."

  His words almost— almost— frightened her, but she found herself agreeing wholeheartedly. She helped him to finish unlacing her corset, to remove her shift. Her fingers faltered at the fastening of his trousers, but then he helped her again, divesting himself of the last remnant of clothing, all concealment gone. Finally, they stood before each other as nature had made them.

  "Now I can say with heartfelt sincerity that you are quite beautiful yourself, my wife."


  The possession in his eyes should have disturbed her, but instead she reveled in it. "And you, even more than I realized, my—my husband."

  Her tongue stumbled over the word, but it was true, of course. He was her husband, and it was wrong to deny him—to deny the physical completion of their marriage. Still, the sight of him, freed of his nether clothing, startled her. Somehow, she hadn't realized . . .

  Before she could complete the nervous thought, he moved to her, took her in his arms and lifted her. She felt suddenly tiny, encompassed by his strength, which somehow aroused her further, and then he laid her on the very bed that had so fascinated her.

  "I want you to be my wife in truth, as well as in name," he whispered. "But I will do nothing you do not want. Tell me what you want, Quinn."

  "You," she responded, her voice strange and wild in her ears. "You . . . promised me new experiences."

  "And you shall have them."

  He knelt beside her on the bed and, hands on her shoulders, gently coaxed her to lie on her back. Quinn felt vulnerable in such a position, but excitedly expectant. She gazed up at him, watching his expression, trying to guess what he would do next.

  His eyes swept over her, as though exploring every detail of her body by the golden afternoon light from the windows. She had never felt more exposed, but though she knew she was blushing, she made no move to cover herself. It was as though his gaze was a physical thing, caressing where it touched, stimulating and soothing simultaneously

  Then his eyes met hers and he smiled, a slow, lazy smile with a power behind it that she didn't understand —but wanted to. She smiled back, certain now that she must be mad. Just as she began to wonder what sort of spell he had cast over her, he leaned down and kissed her, sending her mind back to whatever region it had retreated to before, leaving her body again in ascendancy.

  Her eyes drifted closed and she relaxed, molding to the feathered mounds beneath her. Softly, he touched her cheek then, his fingers featherlike, caressed her throat, her shoulder, her breastbone. When his hand finally came to rest upon her breast, she breathed deeply, arching her back slightly to intensify the pleasurable contact.