by Jade Lee
“I have wealth,” he said softly. “Just no English money.”
“Put that away!” she hissed. “The staff is honest, but they’re not exactly trustworthy when gold is flashed.”
He pushed it toward her. “It’s for you. Take it to a bank and exchange it for English sterling. A few coppers to the household account, and the rest for a new dress. As my thanks for helping me last night.”
Her lips pressed tight as she looked at the coin. Then her body shrank away from it as if it were poison, and when she lifted her eyes to his, they were burning with fury.
“You called me a mistress,” she said, her cultured voice in no way covering for her anger. “And now you seek to pay me with gold. I helped you out of Christian charity, Mr. Frazier.”
“Christians cannot be paid? I assure you, the missionaries in Barbados certainly were.”
“Well, I am not in Barbados. And I am certainly not any man’s mistress. So you will take your gold and you will be gone from this house as you promised. I begin to think you are much more savage than your clothes would suggest.”
He arched a brow. “You have seen my scars, Miss Wilson. And you are only now thinking that?”
She released her breath with a huff, but it in no way lessened the animosity in her eyes. “You are a puzzle, Mr. Frazier. One I do not care to solve.”
His chin dipped in acknowledgment as he pushed his chair away from the table. “Then I will be off.” He picked up the coin off the table. “You should have a dress to replace the one I ruined last night. I will visit a bank today for English money, then make sure you are recompensed—”
Her eyes flashed and he immediately adjusted his statement.
“That the earl is recompensed for my night’s care.”
She inclined her head. No queen could appear more regal. “I would be grateful for that, sir.”
He caught her chin before she could pull back. Her skin was soft, but the bones were firm. Her lips parted on a gasp, and he found himself staring at the hot, wet center of her mouth.
“Gratitude,” he murmured, “is not what I want.”
Then he took a kiss. He couldn’t stop himself. But he did manage to keep from ravishing her mouth. He pressed his lips to hers and felt the heat of her breath as it invaded him. He touched his tongue to the seam of her mouth, wet the exquisite expanse of her lips in a single, long stroke, and then he forced himself to withdraw.
Her eyes were wide, her body frozen in shock. But her lips were red and glistening from his kiss. And she did not scream. He counted that a windfall.
“Good day, Miss Wilson,” he said. And then he turned and fled before her shock had a chance to fade.
Maddy made a point of yawning behind her fan, shooting Rose a look to see if the girl was watching. Rose grimaced back but acknowledged the silent request with a dip of her head. Rose never liked leaving a party early, especially when she was the center of attention, but Maddy needed to get home. She needed to pretend to go to sleep so she could escape the house and get on to her real errand.
Meanwhile, Rose continued chatting. Everyone wanted to know about Mr. Frazier and his terribly violent companion. Rose kept it coy, of course, neither giving out too much information nor too little. It was easy for her to keep the audience entertained, especially since she fabricated most of her information. No one bothered to ask Maddy her opinion. Rose was much more entertaining, and Maddy preferred not to speculate anyway.
Unfortunately, that’s all she’d been doing all day: speculating. What exactly had Mr. Frazier meant when he had kissed her like that? Did he truly see her as a mistress? As his mistress, perhaps? She didn’t believe so. One kiss was absolutely not an invitation to carte blanche. Perhaps, he meant to be honorable by her. As much as she might wish it, she didn’t believe so. He didn’t seem like a man looking for a wife. And even if he were about to propose marriage, would she accept?
He was so different than anyone she had ever met. Sometimes he seemed more like the gypsies of her youth in their passions and intense, focused emotions. But whereas they were loud in their joys and sorrows, everything about Mr. Frazier seemed contained, quieted, and kept under the strictest control. She saw flashes of humor, such as when they restrained Alex. They had seemed so in accord then, though they’d only just met. Then last night, he had been moody and dark. One moment he was in pain, yearning for information about his own family, then the next moment he was angry, his hands clenched into fists, his mouth tight with fury.
Which brought her right back to this morning’s kiss. She had sensed no anger from him then, at least not toward herself. His touch had been sweetly passionate in the gentle exploration of his mouth on hers, and her response had verged on alarming. Her heart had started pounding in her chest, her belly had quivered, and a tide of hunger washed through her. Desire had burned through her, and yet he had pulled away. She didn’t know if the look he gave her was one of banked passion or if she were simply reading her own needs in him.
It was all so confusing and incredibly wonderful at the same time. And yet it was folly, sheer folly! How could she even think of a deeper connection with a man who had almost murdered her? God knew she never wanted to disturb his rest again!
But, of course, this was all ridiculous speculation. Normally, she would dismiss these thoughts entirely, but her mind kept wandering back to that kiss. Well, that and her horrible conversation with Uncle Frank. If she were to become a fallen woman, would it be better to be with the uncertain but decidedly intriguing Mr. Frazier? Or the known quantity of her uncle Frank?
Ugh! The very idea of Uncle Frank was repulsive, though she supposed starving on the street was repulsive as well. Thankfully, she did have other options. She could become a paid companion. She had even kept her eyes open for just such an opportunity. But everyone assumed she was Rose’s paid companion and so they believed her already employed.
She could become a governess. In fact, she might be very good at it. But she was holding on to hope of making a match this season. That would solve all her problems. If only there were a man interested in applying for the position, so to speak.
“The tarts not to your liking?” asked a warm male voice to her left.
“What?” She blinked and encountered the very calm and very brown countenance of Mr. Mitchell Wakely.
“You were pursing your lips, as if tasting something sour.”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I remembered the tarts from last month’s musicale, and so declined.”
“Ah,” he said with a warm smile. “Then you have a fortunate memory.”
“Or the tarts are simply very memorable,” she countered. “I doubt you will forget next month.”
He nodded. “Very true. So what, may I inquire, had you looking so sour?”
She tilted her head, unwilling to share those particular thoughts with anyone, and opted for flirting instead. “That’s very unkind of you, Mr. Wakely, to suggest I looked sour.”
“But I was merely referring to your expression. Right now, I would say you look quite delightful.”
“You are too kind.”
“I assure you, Miss Wilson, no one has ever accused me of that.”
She arched her brow. “On the contrary, I believe I have heard that often about you.”
“That I am kind? No, you have not. Bland, brown, annoyingly inquisitive, certainly. Dog terrier-like mind with the puzzles, perhaps, but not kind. Never, ever kind.”
She looked away because she had indeed heard every single one of those words when referred to him. His skin tended toward a dull tan, his hair and his eyes were brown, and his attire did nothing to change that impression. She did know that he enjoyed puzzles and that he was often seen with the political set. She also knew that he had modest income and was on the search for a wife. Which made him the perfect man with whom to chat right now.
“Well then, sir,” she said smartly. “Allow me to say it. You seem very kind to me.”
He touched his hand to his c
hest and gave her a slight bow. “I am touched. But you have not told me what soured your thoughts.”
“Nor am I like to, sir, until we are very much better acquainted.”
“A challenge!” he crowed, though not overly loud. Mr. Wakely was never overly loud. “Or perhaps, I should view it as more of a puzzle. Shall I try it?”
She leaned back slightly, not sure what to make of Mr. Wakely’s sudden attention. As much as she wanted to believe in his interest, experience had taught her to question such a thing.
She tapped her fan closed and regarded the gentleman somewhat coolly. “I do not know what you mean, sir.”
“And you do not like that. Not knowing, that is. And there you understand exactly my daily condition.”
She frowned, trying to follow his twisted words. “Very well, sir, you may try. And I promise that I shall tell you if you guess correctly.”
He grinned, and suddenly his rather dull face became much more interesting. “Well, as I saw you yawn a moment before, I shall guess that you are tired and wish to go home.”
“Too easy an answer, sir. And here I thought you were counted an excellent puzzler.”
He held up a finger. “Ah, but I have not actually made my guess yet. I am merely speaking my thoughts aloud.”
She made no response, choosing instead to arch a brow. She thought that was one of her best expressions as it smoothed out her skin’s tendency to darken under her eyes. And though she didn’t have any wrinkles yet, she was certainly not in her first flush of youth, so the look also brought attention to her eyes and not the less-than-perfect peach tone of her skin.
“I see you are not convinced, but like a terrier, I must keep on until I have found the truth. I believe that while Lady Rose spent her night resting in the blissful sleep of a beautiful miss, you were up dealing with the added work caused by two unexpected guests, one possibly mad.”
“Neither guest is mad, I assure you.”
“No, but they aren’t exactly well either. And even so, there is always linens to change, baths to arrange, and an extra couple mouths at the table. Perhaps with delicate stomachs.” He glanced to the side where Rose trilled a laugh that could be heard across the room. “Lady Rose is a delightful girl, but never say she assisted with any of that.”
“I would never say anything about it at all. Domestic matters are not for polite discussion.” Her response was more tart than she intended, but his reference to a bath had unsettled her nerves. And his guesses were indeed amazingly accurate.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Mr. Wakely returned, completely unaffected by her tone. “You are much too circumspect to say such a thing. I find I like that about you.”
Maddy didn’t know what to say. She found herself looking into his brown eyes and feeling the unaccountable need to cry. What was wrong with her? Three times now in the space of twenty-four hours, she had found unacceptable tears threatening. It was ridiculous! And yet, she could not deny that she found herself grateful—eternally grateful—that someone had noticed her character!
She swallowed and looked away. “Even if what you say is true, sir, why would that produce a sour expression?”
“Ah, but don’t you see? The hour is not late by Lady Rose’s standards, but you must be up again, early in the morning to do it all again.”
“Don’t be absurd. Our guests have removed themselves from our home. There is no additional work, no new people to entertain or feed.”
“And is that,” he said softly, “perhaps the reason for your sour expression? That these rather interesting men have left your abode?”
Her gaze jumped to his as surprise radiated through her body. He was completely wrong, of course. Her thoughts had been on the possibilities of her future, not on Mr. Frazier’s whereabouts. And yet, something in what he’d said echoed true. More true than anything she had been thinking on all day.
“You promised,” he said when she was silent. “You said you would tell me if I guessed true.”
“I did indeed,” she answered, her mind still whirling. “But I’m afraid I cannot gratify your curiosity. As I don’t precisely remember making a sour expression, I certainly cannot answer as to what I was thinking at the time.”
Disappointment skated across his features. “I cry foul, Miss Wilson. I had not thought you would stoop to lying.”
She shook her head, doing her best to be honest and circumspect. “Not a lie, Mr. Wakely. Sometimes a lady’s thoughts are so torturous that even we have no wish to revisit them.”
“Then your expression comes from something deeper than extra work and more profound than departed guests.”
She gave him a soft smile. It was the best she could manage at the time. “Only one guess allowed, Mr. Wakely. And now, I’m afraid Lady Rose and I must be going. The performers have finished and our hostess looks like she intends to press more tarts upon us all.”
He shot an alarmed look over to the dessert table. No one was there except for a rather bored footman, and so his gaze hopped immediately back to her. “Now that, Miss Wilson, was a definite lie.”
“Not so,” she said as she pushed to her feet. “Look behind you.” There, indeed, stood Mrs. Hughes with an extremely overladen tray of her chef’s terrible lemon tarts.
He turned around to look, and in that time, Maddy managed to shoot Rose a stern look. Fortunately her cousin also had little love for the lemon tarts, so she began her good-byes. By the time Mr. Wakely turned back, they were all caught up in the general leave-taking of fully half the party.
Minutes later, she and Rose were climbing into their carriage and heading home. And now Maddy had yet more things to speculate about: What exactly were Mr. Wakely’s intentions and how did she feel about them?
Fortunately, she had little opportunity to stew. Immediately upon returning home, Maddy pretended to yawn and seek her bed. Then she changed her clothes and donned a shapeless brown wrap that reminded her of a female version of Mr. Wakely’s attire.
That thought had her smiling even as she pocketed the last of the household coins. Moments later, she descended the servants staircase and crept through the kitchen and out of the house.
Chapter 7
Maddy descended from the hackney and wrinkled her nose. The neighborhood that hosted the Tavern Playhouse was not in a sweet-smelling area of London. Fish and stale drink were the primary scents this evening as the wind was blowing from the docks. But there was no help for it. She had a task to do.
She pursed her lips, walking slowly around the building as she planned her course of action. Fortunately, it was a warm evening for early spring. The windows were cracked to allow in the breeze. It also allowed her—and a few street boys—a view inside.
The main doorway led straight to the central tavern, where men gathered to drink and jeer at the production. The stage area was at the back of the room and she could hear a male singer, though what she saw were scantily clad women dancing.
Those girls would not be Lady Blackstone. That’s who she was looking for: the lady herself or someone who would get a message to her. Maddy continued wandering around the building, stepping gingerly past a gin whore and the refuse pile on which she slept.
Luck was with her tonight. A back door was open to let in the night air. A man sat there, his big face calm though he seemed to be scowling at someone inside. She stepped forward. She didn’t try to sneak past him. It simply wouldn’t be possible. So she stood waiting while he glared at some boys backstage. And then he turned to look at her with the same angry scowl on his face.
She tried a soft smile, but it wavered in the face of his stare. “Please. I need to see Lady Blackstone.” She dropped the hood of her cloak and allowed the moonlight to shine full on her face. Hopefully, her clean appearance and cultured accents would gain her some credibility.
It did. The man’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. But then he simply folded his arms across his chest.
“I merely wish to speak with her. I have no ne
ed for money or influence. I just need to discuss—”
“Angel! What are you doing here?”
Maddy flinched backward away from the light. She had no wish to be seen, even by the only man who called her angel. Especially by him. But there he was, standing behind the big man and looking much better than he had just this morning.
“Come inside,” he said. Then he glanced at the big man blocking the way. “It’s all right, Seth. She’s a friend.”
The guard nodded, and Maddy was surprised to see that there was a softness in him. When he looked at Mr. Frazier, a sadness came into his eyes and the pinched look left his mouth, as if the two men had shared a past that wasn’t especially kind.
“Come in, angel,” Mr. Frazier repeated.
“Thank you, sir,” she said to the guard, who nodded to her.
“That’s Seth, by the by,” said Mr. Frazier. “He’s mute, but we all understand him well enough. And God knows he understands us!”
“Oh . . .” began Maddy, but there was no time for more as Mr. Frazier tugged her away into the flickering lights behind the stage.
“Are you cold?” he asked as he rubbed her arms up and down. It was too familiar a movement, but she found she didn’t object. His hands were on top of her cloak. She was hardly being improper, and yet it felt as though she were allowing a gross liberty made worse when he tucked her close to his side.
“I had forgotten the cold,” he said. “There was a time I thought I’d never feel it again.”
She had no answer to that. She didn’t want to bring up painful memories, so she chose to remark on his new appearance. “You’ve bought new clothing. It looks quite nice.”
The attire was modest by Uncle Frank’s standards, but she found the outfit to be perfect for Mr. Frazier. Simple lines that showed off his excellent physique. Of course, looking at him dressed like this, she couldn’t help but remember the scars that crisscrossed the skin underneath. Was it strange that it made him even more handsome to her?
