by Shana Galen
“You could try telling me.”
He shook his head firmly. “No, my lady.”
“Very well. I imagine you are hungry. Go to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Koch I said to give you something to eat. When you’ve finished, join the other boys in the drawing room with Mrs. Dunwitty.”
“Yes, my lady. Is Mrs. Dunwitty the small lady with the poof of hair?”
She smiled. “Yes, but one thing I learned from Mrs. Dunwitty is that though someone may be small in stature that does not make them weak. Don’t test her, Billy. You will not win.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He lumbered off, and she sat at the desk and put her head in her hands. Perhaps Robbie would tell her what had happened between Billy and himself. She lost herself in writing letters and detailing expenses, so much so that when Wraxall pushed her door open, so that it thudded against the wall, she nearly jumped out of her seat. “What is wrong?” Blood marred the white of his shirt, trailing down one sleeve. She jumped to her feet. “You are hurt, sir!”
He glanced at his arm seeming to discount the injury. “It’s a scratch. You, my lady, may not come away so unscathed.”
“What on earth do you mean?” She moved closer to him, her eyes widening as she saw how soaked the shirt had become with blood. “Oh, never mind. You really must have that seen to. Where is Jackson?”
“I sent him to fetch my evening clothes. The Darlington musicale is this evening.”
Her heart seemed to thud painfully in her chest. “I’d forgotten.” She’d hoped she would have more time.
“That seems a recurring theme. I also told you to leave Billy locked in the parlor.”
“I did leave him here, but I had work to do, and he was hungry and has his studies.”
Wraxall stalked toward her. “Did you ever stop to think there might be a reason I told you to leave him in the parlor?”
“Did you ever think to tell me what it might be?”
He glared at her, and she glared back, but as she did so a drop of blood fell from her hand onto the carpet. She’d had enough. “Sir, you will come with me immediately. I insist on seeing to your injured arm.”
“I told you it was a scratch, and I haven’t finished this discussion.”
“Then by all means, we may continue it in my bedchamber.”
He started to protest and then closed his mouth. Julia did not know if she should take that as a good sign or a bad. She did want to treat the wound before he bled to death before her eyes, but she wasn’t certain she wanted him so eager to join her in her bedchamber.
Or perhaps it was she whose heart beat a little faster at the thought of him in her room, alone and shirtless.
“After you,” he said, drawing her attention to the fact that she was still standing in the middle of the parlor.
She clenched her hands together and walked past him, trying very hard not to notice how, without his coat, the tight fit of his trousers was more apparent and his thin linen shirt did little to hide his muscled chest beneath.
In the corridor she hesitated, not certain whether she should take the servants’ stairs or the main stairway. She decided on the main stairway so she would not have to explain herself to Mrs. Koch. All the boys and Mrs. Dunwitty were still at their lessons. Mr. Goring and Jackson were absent, which meant it would be her and Wraxall alone together. She lifted her skirts and started up the stairs, feeling his presence right behind him. Since he’d eschewed shaving thus far today, he had a dark shadow on his jaw. His work on the roof had left a smudge on his cheek and several more on his hands. The overall effect was one of danger.
The fact he stalked after her like a leopard hunting prey did not calm her nerves.
Finally, they reached the second floor and she led him into her chamber. She wisely left the door open as she rummaged on her dressing table for the kit she kept of basic medical supplies—bandages, strips of cloth, cotton, and spirits to clean a wound if need be. She found it, then turned to see him standing beside her bed, looking about her room with keen interest.
Too late, she realized she had been in a hurry when she’d dressed this morning—after the embarrassing incident with Mrs. Dunwitty catching them in the parlor—and she had left all of her underthings strewn about. Not to mention her bed was unmade and her night rail lay on top of the coverlet.
His gaze met hers, and Julia swallowed at the heat she saw in his eyes. She had to say something—anything—to ease the tension they both felt.
“Take off your shirt.”
Quite possibly, that was not the correct phrase for this exact moment.
He raised a brow, probably considering all the naughty things he might say next. She cut him off. “I need to see to your injury.”
“It’s not an injury. It’s a scratch. What we really need to discuss are Billy and Walter.”
“Walter was not even involved in the incident this morning,” she protested.
“That’s because he and Billy are working together.” He moved closer, his gaze locked on hers. “For Slag.”
She remembered the conversation she’d overheard between Wraxall and Walter. Not Billy too. She shook her head. “Billy isn’t working for Slag.”
“I can’t prove it. Not yet, at any rate. But all the signs are there.”
This could not be happening. These were her boys. Slag could not have them. “I won’t let Slag turn my boys into criminals.”
“How will you stop him? It won’t be long before these boys are bigger and stronger than you, and then they’ll go where they like, when they like. I’m fairly certain Billy could best you.”
“He would never hurt me.” She knew Billy, knew that underneath his aloof exterior was a boy who just needed to be loved. She had to find a way to reach that boy and to show him that she would love him.
“My lady, forgive me, but I have fought with thousands of men and commanded hundreds. I know something about my own sex. All Billy knows is violence. He might not want to hurt you, but if you stand in his way, he will do what he knows best.”
“And your solution is to condemn him to life in a workhouse?”
“Never. It was a threat, but the idea behind it is sound. If he is a threat to the other boys, then you owe it to them to send him away.”
“No.” Her chest tightened, and she struggled to draw a breath. “I will never let you take him away. I won’t allow you to take any of them. They are mine, and you can’t take them from me.” To her shock, tears appeared in her eyes.
“Even if it’s for the best?” he asked.
“It’s best that they stay here with me.” He was not Lainesborough, she told herself. Not Lainesborough. But it was too late. She could not calm herself.
He leaned down so their eyes were level. “You are not Billy’s mother.”
“I am the closest thing he has to a mother, and I will not allow you to rip him out of my arms as he cries in fear because he’s being taken from the only people and the only place he’s ever known.”
She’d said too much. She knew it too late, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, but Wraxall’s shrewd gaze missed nothing. Instead of replying, instead of asking her what the devil she was talking about, he stepped back, turned, and walked to the bedchamber door.
She closed her eyes. He would leave now. He would go to her father and tell the earl to send footmen to drag her back to the town house or, worse yet, an asylum. Perhaps he’d even warn the board she was not sane enough to hold this position.
She heard the door click closed and opened her eyes. But he wasn’t gone. He regarded her as he leaned on the closed door. “Perhaps it’s time I allowed you to tend to my injury.”
She sniffled. “I thought it was merely a scratch.”
“Yes, well, even a scratch can become infected and fester if not properly treated.”
She nodded. Were th
ey still talking of wounds or was he being metaphorical? And then she forgot her name, much less worrying about literal versus figurative language, when he moved away from the door, pulled his shirt tails from his trousers, and yanked the shirt over his head.
* * *
Neil had never been tempted to break his vow to abstain from coitus until he stood half-naked in Lady Juliana’s bedchamber and watched her brown eyes darken with desire when he removed his shirt.
She made him want to throw caution to the wind and take the chance that he might father a bastard.
His iron grip had always been steady and solid, even when he had a woman naked and willing in his arms. He’d always been able to give and receive pleasure without that one dangerous act, and though some women tried to entice him, he was steadfast.
Lady Juliana was doing nothing to entice him, and yet he felt himself harden. In his mind, images of her lying beneath him, crying his name as he drove into her, came again and again wholly unbidden.
He told himself this was not the time to give in to temptation. She was visibly upset—about Billy, yes, but about something far more traumatic. She needed a distraction and consolation. She did not need a man who could think of nothing but deflowering her.
Her pink tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip in a gesture that was obviously innocent but which fired his blood nonetheless. Abruptly, he sat on the bed and balled his shirt over the tent in his trousers, lest his arousal become patently obvious.
That seemed to compel her to action. She gathered her medical supplies and placed them on the bed next to him, then poured water from the ewer into a basin. “You are right, of course,” she said, her voice a little wobbly but growing stronger. “The reason we came in here was to tend to your wound.”
He glanced down at the scratch on his arm and resisted pointing out it really did not qualify as a wound. Distraction was key at present. When she had recovered herself, he could bring up the topic of Billy again. As to the other matter she had mentioned, he was curious, but to ask her about it would be a mistake. He was already in too deep here at the orphanage and with her. He could not encourage confidences. He could not allow emotions to whirl about them and spin a web binding them together.
Unfortunately, he was feeling some rather strong emotions when she knelt on the bed beside him and began to clean blood from his arm with a clean strip of linen.
Why the hell had he sat on the bed? She had a chair at the dressing table. Why hadn’t he sat there instead of this bed that conjured images of the two of them entwined together even before she knelt beside him on it? Some of the blood on his arm had dried, and she lightly gripped his arm as she attempted to clean it. He clenched his jaw in an attempt not to notice the softness of her fingertips, the swell of her breasts against the light-green fabric of her dress, or the tempting fragrance of roses that scented her hair.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, not unclenching his teeth. “Why?”
“You seem rather tense.”
Was it his imagination or did she sound as breathless as he felt. He turned his head to look at her, then thought better of. If he looked at her, he’d only notice the way the light made her coppery hair look as though it was aflame or the pale translucency of her skin or the fullness of her mouth.
Stop it. Think of… He struggled to imagine something or someone unattractive. Porter! Think of the Draven Club’s Master of the House. There was absolutely nothing remotely arousing about Porter.
“There, that’s clean. Now, where is the bandage?” She leaned forward to look for it, pressing her breasts against his bicep. Neil closed his eyes, but he couldn’t imagine Porter’s wrinkled face. All he could imagine were the soft curves of those breasts as they strained within the confines of the lace night rail. He gripped the bedclothes with his uninjured arm and could almost feel the silk of the night rail against his palm.
Opening his eyes, he realized his hand had landed on the damned night rail. How the devil was any one man supposed to stand strong in the face of these temptations?
“Here it is.” She sat back again. Neil thanked God only her hands touched him again. His nose caught the sharp smell of spirits right before she pressed a cloth soaked in whatever it was against his scrape.
“Bloody hell!” he swore. “You could warn a man.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Did that hurt?”
Not so much as the straining of his cock, but he couldn’t do anything to ease that discomfort. “A little sting,” he said, his voice clipped.
“I’m almost done.”
He watched as she wound the bandage around his bicep. He was not about to take his eyes off her—not after she’d almost caused him to squeal like a child. She moved with grace and efficiency, and the scratch was covered in clean linen in no time. She tied it off, but having a difficult time making sure the knot was secure, she used her teeth to pull one end of the knot she made so she could keep the finger of her other hand in place.
Good God but he would embarrass himself in a moment. He could hardly stop himself from imaging those small, white teeth moving just a fraction to the left and scoring his bare chest.
Unfortunately, she chose that moment to glance up at him. “All done.” Her smile faded when she saw the look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” he grit out, leaning toward her and wrapping his good arm around her waist. When she gasped in surprise, he said again, “I’m sorry.” His mouth took hers in a fierce kiss. She stiffened in his arms, her lips tight and unyielding. But as the kiss deepened, she became more pliant. Her body melted against his, and her lips softened. She returned the kiss tentatively at first and then she was kissing him back, her passion as hot as his. He growled and pulled her closer, needing more of her, wanting all of her. When that didn’t satisfy, he lifted her and hauled her onto his lap.
Her hands dragged through his hair, and his hands held her waist and splayed upward until the tips of his fingers brushed the swell of her breasts. He waited for her to protest, but she only continued to kiss him, her tongue delving into his mouth and twining with his. And then as though the decision was made for him, she leaned into him and her breasts filled his hands.
What was a man to do? He cupped them, moving his thumbs until they traced the points of her nipples through the thick fabric of her gown. He traced the nipples, still kissing her, until he felt them pebble and harden. With a moan, she leaned back and looked at his face. Her breath came fast and hard, and her face flushed when she looked down at his hands, moving in circles over her rounded flesh.
She did not tell him to cease, and Neil had the impression that he might not be the first man she’d allowed this liberty. She was an earl’s daughter. She’d been to balls and fetes and soirees. More than one man had probably pulled her into a dark alcove to kiss her, then try for more.
Her eyes closed briefly as his thumbs brushed her nipples. “You like this,” he said quietly.
“I shouldn’t.”
“You were made to experience pleasure.”
“I have a house full of orphans to care for. I don’t have time for pleasure.” She began to wriggle off his lap, which only made him want to keep her there.
“You can make time.”
“No.”
He had to allow her to pull away. He’d been raised as a gentleman. He knew when a lady resisted, a gentleman released her. He also knew he would not have this chance again, and whereas before, one woman was the same as another, now this woman was the only one he wanted.
And of course this was the woman who did not want him.
Neil released her, disappointment surging through him. He hadn’t expected to feel such fierce regret at having to let her go. In the past few days, he’d seen her frustrated, angry, amused, and nurturing. He’d also seen her aroused, and that was the l
ook he liked best on her.
He held his arms out, a gesture designed to prove he would not attempt to keep her against will. Instead of pushing away from him, she sat motionless on his lap.
Was it his imagination or did she hesitate? Perhaps she was not so certain she wanted to be free of his embrace.
“Wait,” she said, her voice quiet and hesitant.
Neil’s heart began to pound, and he had to hold his arms at his sides to keep from wrapping her in them once again. She did not move, and after three thudding heartbeats, Neil swallowed. “Wait?”
She shook her head. “I was right to begin with. Stop.” But she didn’t rise or make any move to pull farther away from him. Instead, her gaze met his. He saw a wariness there he’d seen in her eyes when she’d looked at him before.
“Who hurt you?” he said, thinking aloud, the words free before he could rein them in.
“No one,” she said immediately.
“Did some man force you? Did he physically hurt you?” His arms circled her, the gesture purely protective. “Tell me his name, and I will see that he receives the punishment he is due.”
She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, noble knight, but I wasn’t accosted. There’s no one who hurt me.”
Neil could see in the way she shifted her gaze that she lied. And whatever it was she hid, that was the key to everything.
Fourteen
She wasn’t being completely honest. She had been hurt. Her heart had been torn from her body and stomped on not once but twice. But that pain, that injustice, was not of the kind he spoke of. He thought some man had forced unwanted attentions on her. That wasn’t it at all, though she was not so innocent that she didn’t know some men would take as much as they could if given a chance. Even gentlemen were not averse to demanding that pleasure bestowed be repaid.
“But you don’t trust me.”
She looked up from where her hands had fisted in the material of her day dress. She was painfully aware she still sat on his lap, painfully aware she should not be there, painfully aware of the hard length of him waiting to press against that most intimate part of herself if she only scooted forward slightly.
