She shook her head. Rivulets of rain trickled down her face and disappeared beneath her shirt collar. Her woolen jacket hung heavily from her shoulders and one dripping chestnut tendril had escaped her soft cap. She looked like a drowned kitten.
“I’ll go back to Cannon Street and find a coach,” he said.
“No! I shall manage on my own. You go on.”
“Do not be a fool. I will pay the coachman. I cannot leave you out here.”
Sarah frowned and pointed in the direction Whitlock had gone. “Mr. Whitlock—”
“Has already got away,” he finished. His hopes dimmed, and he fought the resurgence of frustration. “Come on, then. I think I saw an inn nearby. We’ll get you out of those clothes and look at that arm.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ethan found himself standing in the center of a little room very similar to the one at the Black Dog Tavern. He watched Sarah peel away her sodden jacket and drape it over the back of a wooden chair. Her cap went next to hang off the corner of the mantel of the tiny fireplace. She knelt before the fire and rubbed her hands together to warm them, looking small and vulnerable. And very desirable.
Bloody hell! Was he so weak that he could not resist the little liar more than ten minutes? He sent up a silent prayer to maintain his distance long enough to send her packing.
She sighed and glanced over her shoulder at him. “I…I am sorry to put you to this trouble, Mr. Travis. If I were a man, I could stand before the fire in the public room and you would not need to hire a room.”
“Ethan,” he corrected, shrugging out of his own jacket and hanging it on a hook on the back of the door.
Her voice was subdued, almost apologetic. “I will pay for the room, but I do not have enough with me. Next time—”
“Next time?” he asked.
“I may not be able to come tomorrow. I have another obligation. The night after?”
Her face, lit by the warm glow of the fire, was heart-breakingly beautiful. Before he could think better of it, he held out his hand to her and she reached to take it. When his fingers closed over hers and he pulled her to her feet, a surge of warmth swelled in his chest.
The rain had soaked through her jacket and trickled down her neck, and now the threadbare linen shirt clung to her, revealing every curve, hollow and tint. It was obvious that she had not bound her breasts tonight by the tempting little dots pressing against the cloth. His body was instantly hard.
Sarah stepped closer and tilted her chin upward, inviting a kiss. Her black lashes fluttered and settled in a soft fan against her cheeks. Her lips parted ever so slightly, giving him an inner glimpse of the dark honeyed heaven of her mouth. Lord, how deeply he wanted her!
Why now, when he finally knew he could never have her, did she seem ready to accept his advances? He dropped her hand to break the physical contact, his only hope of maintaining some semblance of self-control. She was startled by his withdrawal, and he studied her face for a moment before he spoke.
“I’d advise you to strip and hang your clothes from the mantel to dry but, given our history, that wouldn’t be wise.”
She glanced down at herself, then at his groin, and a soft pink swept her throat and cheeks. “No. Not wise at all.”
He went to the bed, pulled a blanket away and took it to her. “See what you can do with that.” The words came out more gruffly than he intended—a result of his body’s betrayal.
Unnerved, she wrapped the blanket around herself like a cocoon, and he took some small amount of pleasure in that.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He smiled. “ I am sorry. I enjoyed the view.”
“Then you are welcome.”
Ethan’s quick laugh surprised them both. He shrugged. “Just when I think I have you pegged, you surprise me. You were all maidenly modesty, and now you are all sass and wit.”
He pulled another wooden chair close to the fire and sat, gesturing her back to her comfortable position on the hearth. The more distance between them, the better. Some inner demon drove him to ask, “How’s business, Sadie?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her brow furrowed, as if she were wrestling with some difficult decision.
Unless he missed his guess, and he rarely did, she was on the verge of confession. He’d never make that easy. A confession would ruin his fun, and he’d barely begun taking his revenge. “I do worry about your means of support,” he volunteered. “Most women in your profession earn their livings after dark, yet here you are spending your nights in nonpaying activities. Surely business must be suffering.”
She would not meet his eyes. “I am doing well enough.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Then your tonish clientele pays well for day work and does not require you past midnight?”
Her eyes flashed before she turned away. “I do not think that is any of your business, Mr. Travis. Unless you are considering entering the trade yourself and asking for professional advice.”
“Now that would be interesting, would it not? But in point of fact, Miss Hunt,” he said evenly, “I’ve offered to make it my business, and to turn your evenings into profitable endeavors. On several occasions. But you are evidently more discriminating than most of your ‘sisters.’”
Her full lower lip trembled—the one he loved to nibble—just slightly more delicious than the upper lip. “It was not that, Mr. Ethan. ’Tis just that I thought it best not to mix business and…and business. But, of late—”
“Do not fret,” he interrupted. He grinned at her confusion. “Were I you, I would not serve me either. I’ve been told I am quite demanding and require no small amount of stamina. Not to mention that I have rather odd tastes.”
Her eyes grew round. “I find you most appealing, and I cannot think that you would be so difficult to please.”
Ah, a small sop to his pride. Here was the sweetness that had fooled the entire ton. Lady Sarah Hunter knew her social graces. “I would have liked to put that to the test, Sadie. Would you have felt the same afterward, I wonder?”
Her color deepened to a bright pink. That was part her charm, he supposed, and the likely result of having been raised with boys. Ethan had never cared much for hothouse flowers, and Sarah’s quickly covered flashes of temper intrigued him.
“I think we had better change the subject,” she said.
“You choose. I have a talent for embarrassing you.”
She turned to face the fire, and he knew her well enough now to know that she was regrouping. His rebuff had surprised her. Hell, it surprised him!
“I am curious, sir. Why did you agreed to teach me to follow? I asked on impulse, and I fully expected you to refuse.”
Good question, he thought. Why had he agreed? Looking back, he knew it had been more than just keeping an eye on her while he followed Whitlock. He’d have helped her anyway. Ah, but why? The memory of his first awareness of her at the King’s Head came to him strong and clear. “Your laugh, Sadie. ’Twas your laugh.”
“I do not understand.” She tilted her head to one side.
“It was a genuine laugh without bitterness or cynicism—the first of its kind that I’d heard in many years. But once I knew what you were, I knew you would lose it, sooner or later. I hoped, if I helped, you would be able to keep your laugh.”
“You are…” She paused and cleared her throat. “You are very kind. Kinder than I deserve.”
“Keep that to yourself, will you?” he asked. “I would not want it widely known.”
“You enjoy your reputation as the Demon of Alsatia, do you not? You encourage it.”
His smile deepened and he rocked his chair back on the two rear legs. He was not about to allow the conversation to focus on him. “Speaking of trades, Sadie, tell me what you have gleaned from ‘following.’”
Her shoulders sagged. “I confess it is more complicated than I’d thought. Still, I will be able to master it in time.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” he said. “You have t
he coordination and the stealth necessary, but there is much work to be done before you are ready to go out on your own. Depending upon your level of commitment, of course.”
“I am completely committed,” she vowed. “What else must I learn?”
“Following is only the beginning. To excel at your task, you must draw conclusions from what you observe and be able to separate fact from illusion. I am curious, Sadie. What have you learned about Harold Whitlock?”
“That he is rarely at home of an evening.”
He smiled again. She had a way of provoking that. “And why is he never home of an evening?”
“Because he is gone to a barroom, brothel or opium den.”
“Think, Sadie. Take your information to the next step.”
She pursed her lips in a delightful little pout as she thought. “I do not think he is a nice man. I think he ill-treats his inferiors. He behaves like a man with a secret.”
Well, well. Little Sarah Hunter was as shrewd a pupil as any of His Majesty’s finest. He nodded approval. “I believe you may be right. Can you guess what his secret is?”
“Jewel theft.” She smiled and paused for a moment before adding, “Or blackmail.”
Ethan feigned a mild curiosity to cover a sharp stab of fear for Sarah. How could she have suspected such a thing? Such knowledge could put her in grave danger. He had to steer her away from that suspicion. “Blackmail? Hardly. More likely he is hiding an affaire d’amour,” he offered.
Sarah’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Who would ever—that is, are you suggesting he has a mistress?”
“Or a particular favorite among the demimonde. So, perhaps I should ask you ‘who would ever?’ Do you not have friends amongst that group? Surely they talk. I would think you have a wide range of resources open to you that other, more genteel, women would not.”
“I…I suppose,” she allowed.
Color swept her cheeks again and her lashes fluttered as she looked down at her lap, unable to meet his gaze. “Do you think you could use your resources to learn more about Harold Whitlock?” he asked with a straight face. “When next you find yourself in the company of your…er, colleagues, you could find out who he favors.” He turned the screw. “You might even be able to be that person.”
“Be?” She furrowed her brow again. “Are you suggesting that I—oh!”
“Ah. I see I have overestimated your commitment.”
“You have not, Ethan. I could not be more committed.”
He cocked his head to one side and swept her with an appraising gaze. “Then do you lack the necessary talents?”
Sarah looked startled by the question. “Talents?”
“Of seduction.”
Something sparked in the pansy eyes. She rose to her feet and glided to his chair. Little tendrils of polished chestnut curls framed her oval face and the hint of a smile curved her mouth. Her hand cupped his cheek and she leaned toward him, the lilac scent of her perfume wafting around them. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, “By your previous invitations, sir, I cannot think I lack anything of great importance.”
Her breath in his ear, hot and moist, brought his blood up, thickening in his veins. He gripped the edges of his chair, hands trembling, knuckles white. “Are you playing with me, Sadie?” he asked. “Because if you are, I advise against it. I will consider the next such episode an invitation and will react accordingly.”
Her slender index finger trailed down his jawline and came to rest beneath his chin. She tilted his face up to hers and gave him such a provocative smile that he could almost believe that she was an accomplished demimondaine. She leaned even closer, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “Ah, then my intentions are clear. This is an invitation, Ethan.”
Of all the things Ethan could think of to say, none of them were acceptable in mixed company. Had she spoken those words a week ago—when he hadn’t known who she was—he’d have fallen on her like a ravenous wolf, matching her kiss for kiss until she was weak and pliable to his passion. It was all he could do not to seize her and ravish her on the bare floor in front of the fire. In fact, he could not even stand and walk away for the swelling ache in his groin.
Worse, he honestly did not know whether he’d strangle her or plunder the soft secrets of her body if he laid his hands on her. “You had better get yourself out of harm’s way, Sadie, or I will not be responsible,” he said between clenched teeth.
She straightened and stepped back from the chair, a wounded look in her soulful eyes. “I believe I shall take you up on your offer of a coach.”
“A good idea,” he agreed.
Chapter Thirteen
Excitement bubbled in Sarah as she handed a footman her shawl and waved her brothers to go on without her into the foyer of the Aubervilles’ London home. She smoothed the cool silk of her new plum-colored gown as she glanced around. Annica had outdone herself! Glittering chandeliers sent shards of bright light dancing across the ceiling and walls. The strains of the orchestra tuning up carried from a distant room, and the heady scent of roses in full bloom filled the air. Footmen carried silver trays laden with wine glasses and maids offered delicacies on tiny china plates, biscuits or mint leaves.
Too excited to nibble, Sarah hurried toward the reception line at the wide double doors to the ballroom. She was supposed to wait in the reception line with Annica until the Whitlocks came. Then she would distract Mr. Whitlock while Annica whisked Mrs. Whitlock away for a reunion with little Araminta. She prayed the visit would give Mrs. Whitlock new hope and the strength she needed to see this thing through.
The press of the crowd slowed her and she glanced ahead to see if her friend was watching for her. To the contrary, Annica was deeply involved in conversation with her husband and a guest he had just introduced. Sarah halted and stepped out of line to hold back. How, she wondered, had Tristan introduced Ethan? Annica, my dear, may I present the Demon of Alsatia? Or perhaps, Ethan, old boy, you must tell my wife how you came by your nickname. Quite a story, that.
Her heart skipped a beat. Ethan was dressed in dark gray with a forest-green waistcoat. His pristine cravat was intricately tied in the height of fashion and secured with an emerald stickpin. He was far and away the most handsome man she had ever seen. But she dared not approach Annica for fear of being introduced! Just the thought of it made her light-headed with anxiety. Still worse, Harold and Gladys Whitlock had just entered the foyer! How could she distract Mr. Whitlock without Annica’s help? Was it too much to hope that Ethan was an uninvited guest and would be shown the door?
As if intercepting her thought, Ethan glanced up and caught her eye. His slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod in her direction. Then he winked! Actually winked! Oh, what brazen taunting!
Or was he attempting to remind her of her unwelcome advances of the night before? Humiliation washed over her at the memory of his rejection. Oh yes, he was laughing at her. The cad! She promised herself that he’d never know that invitation was the bravest thing she had ever done.
She had long despised herself for letting her fears control her but, until last night, she hadn’t known what to do about them. Then, when she realized that Ethan was teasing her as she dried herself in front of the fire, she had known in a flash of uncommon clarity that she had to face those fears if she was ever to be free of them. And she thought she knew how—have it done with! Beard the lion! Breach the gates! Brazen it out!
Open her legs.
She’d been ready to yield. And why not? He had been preparing her for that almost since the night they met. She had nothing to lose that had not already been stolen in Vauxhall Gardens so long ago. Nothing but her pride. She had lost that last night.
Ethan met her gaze again as she hardened herself with resolve. The hint of a cloud passed over his face and he took his leave of the Aubervilles. Without another glance in her direction, he disappeared into the ballroom.
Just in time! The Whitlocks had made their wa
y to the front of the reception line. Sarah squared her shoulders and pressed through the crowd to join them.
Annica turned to her with almost comical relief. “Mr. Whitlock, have you met my dear friend, Lady Sarah Hunter?”
With a reassuring nod in Gladys’s direction, Sarah offered her hand to the man. “How do you do, Mr. Whitlock. I must tell you how very much I have enjoyed making your wife’s acquaintance at the Ladies’ Assistance League. Indeed, she is quite an inspiration.” There was no such league, but the Wednesday League certainly assisted women.
Harold Whitlock bowed low over her hand, and she feared he would kiss it. Straightening with an obsequious smile in place, he spoke his first words to her. “You are no stranger to me, Lady Sarah. I feel as if I know you quite well.”
Sarah froze and the noise of the party faded. Gladys Whitlock covered the awkward pause. “I have been telling my husband how devotedly you work on behalf of the less fortunate.”
“Oh,” Sarah said. “Yes, well….”
“You must do me the honor of a dance, Lady Sarah.” He smoothed his thinning hair back.
She braced herself for duty. “I believe I may be able to manage that, Mr. Whitlock. In fact, I know I shall be occupied later, so if you have not promised your wife, this would be an excellent time. Otherwise, I shall have to consult my brother Reggie to be certain he has not made other arrangements for me.”
“An obedient, dutiful woman.” He smirked and turned to his wife with a triumphant smile. “You see, Gladys? Some women still know their place.”
Sarah blinked. The man was an absolute maggot! A sideways glance at Annica caused her a moment of concern. Though the smile had frozen on her face, her eyes betrayed her anger. Auberville’s mouth quirked and he took a small step back, as if giving Whitlock over to Annica’s not-so-tender mercies.
Watching the interplay, Sarah knew that Annica was about to risk their plan with ill-advised words. The burden of social diplomacy had fallen to her by default. Sarah disengaged her hand from Mr. Whitlock’s grip and waved it airily. “You give me too much credit, sir. I am certain that, should you ask my brother, he would tell you that I have a mind of my own.”
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