A familiar anger burned through her blood. Gentlemen like Reggie had seen fit to rob her of any other opportunity…dismissing her on the grounds of impertinence when she had not been more accommodating to their wishes. With so many dismissals and too few references, a position more suited to her qualifications eluded her. Her fist curled at her side. Da’s voice whispered across her mind. Almost as if he stood beside her. Careful, Fallon girl. Don’t let ’im get your goat.
Sighing, she uncurled her fingers and stowed away her frustrations. Such emotions would only get her sacked. Yet again. Far better that she diffuse the situation.
“If you would pardon me, Mr. Jamison.” She attempted to step past him.
He blocked her, moving faster than she expected for one so deep in his cups. “I thought you might like to join me and my friends in the parlor for some sherry.” Leaning forward, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “See how the other half lives.”
He pressed a finger against his wobbly-mouthed smile. “I won’t tell Mother. Come.” He clasped her arm. As if he had every right to do so. Her teeth ground so hard her jaw ached. But didn’t they all behave that way? As if they possessed every right?
The top of his head did not even reach her chin. It would be a relatively simple matter to plant her fist in his pug-nosed face and knock him down. As much as her father had lectured her on controlling her temper and abiding the ill treatment of her betters, he had also taught her it was acceptable to draw a line when risk to her person loomed imminent.
Drawing a steadying breath, she cautioned herself that it had not come to that. Yet. And she must prevent such a situation from arising. Otherwise she would be at the mercy of the agency again. Specifically Mrs. Harrison. The image of that proprietress rose in her mind, her sour face and buglike, unblinking eyes not the least bit merciful. She would not refer Fallon if she were sacked again. No matter the excuse.
Dignity and forbearance. Dignity and forbearance.
Like all those years at Penwich when she had bit her tongue and born Master Brocklehurst’s switch to her back. For whatever imagined infraction. She would bear more. She could. With as much charm and humility as she could manage, she pasted a smile on her face. “Lovely as that sounds, sir, I must decline.”
“Ah, you must not.” Hiccup. “As your employer, I insist.” His slight chest swelled with importance. “I command it. I told all my friends about you—my fiery-haired Boadicea.” His fingers flexed on her arm, his grip softening into a caress.
“Boadicea?” She winced.
“Yes. She was a Celtic queen who fought off the Romans—”
“I know who she is,” she inserted pertly, then bit her tongue. Dignity and forbearance.
“Indeed.” Hiccup. “Then you recall she was a giant of a woman with flaming hair. It is said she rode bare-breasted into battle.” His gaze dropped to her chest almost on level with his eyes.
Her cheeks smoldered. That particular bit had been left out of her history lessons.
He trailed his hand down her arm, his fingers reaching her tightly fisted hand. “If I don’t return to the parlor with you, they will think I’ve invented you.” Hiccup. “We can’t have that. Now. Do as you’re bade and come along with Reggie.” He winked. “I promise you shall have a grand time.” From the way he licked his fleshy lips, Fallon guessed he expected he would have a grand time, too—with her.
Da had warned her of men’s lascivious natures—especially when it came to women they considered beneath them. Easy pickings. Aside of her own father, the years since had concreted her feelings on that score. The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls had boasted a few girls who were less than virtuous. And yet Fallon had never faulted them. They bartered what they possessed for what the school failed to provide—food, clothes…affection.
Post or no post, she had no intention of stepping into a parlor full of inebriated men scarcely out of leading strings.
“I work for your mother. Not you, Mr. Jamison.”
Something tightened in his face, reminding her of a spoiled boy denied a treat. He flicked a hand in the air. “And who do you think shall inherit? Once I reach majority, all this shall belong to me.” His gaze roved over her. “That includes you and every other servant in this house. If you wish to keep your post, you would do well to remember that.”
Her fingers tightened around the strings of her reticule. It took every ounce of willpower to not swing it at the insolent pup. If she remained one moment longer, she would strike him where he stood.
“Forgive me, sir, but I forgot I have something I must do.”
With that rather inane comment, she gave a fierce tug and freed herself from his grasp. Lips tight, she spun on her heel, perversely satisfied at her final glimpse of his startled face. Likely a servant had never denied him anything before.
“Where are you going?” he sputtered behind her.
She didn’t reply. Hopefully she could disappear into the night and tomorrow this whole encounter would be but a dim memory for the sot. A few times around the square and she would return, well after he had returned to his friends in the parlor.
She hurried out the servants’ door into the frigid night, her heels clicking over the cobbled path that circled the house. Passing through the gate, she forged ahead, heedless that it clanked loudly behind her. Her breath puffed before her in frothy clouds.
The sudden echo of the gate clanging open and shut again scraped the air. She froze and shot a look over her shoulder into the murky night. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. She quickened her pace.
“You there! Girl! Wait.”
Heat licked her cheeks. Girl! Really! She possessed a name. And she happened to be older than he, the little toad.
“Stop, I say!” He was tenacious. A bulldog with a bone. She pretended not to hear him and turned down a street leading from the square, onto sidewalks lined with darkened shops. Feet pounded behind her. For a brief moment, she contemplated breaking into a full run but decided against it. A tad dramatic, and she was a pragmatist at heart. A pragmatist who needed her post come morning.
Sighing, she stopped and turned to face him, legs braced a bit apart. “Mr. Jamison,” she began as he came to a halt breathlessly before her, his face red from exertion…and something else. Something that sent a trickle of unease down her spine. “Go home, sir. Return to your friends. I remembered I have an errand to—”
“At this hour?” he panted. “Nonsense. You’re trying to escape me. Most impertinent.”
“Please, sir. Just go home.”
Panting, he clutched his side, all evidence of hiccups gone. “You dare to command me? Hold your tongue, girl.”
“Please, Mr. Jamison,” she said tiredly. “I have no wish to offend—”
He raised his hand from his side and snatched her wrist, his eyes glowing with a sobriety absent moments ago, before his jog through fogged streets. “Then you best be a biddable creature and follow me back inside the house.”
She glanced down at her arm. At the pale hand, smaller than her own, gripping her. Anger churned in her stomach. Extending the spot-faced lad any courtesy at this point took every ounce of will she possessed. Da had long ingrained in her the importance of showing proper humility to her betters. But he had also instilled in her a healthy respect for herself—for the safety of her person.
“Do you hear me?” Reggie tightened his grip.
She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. Sorry, Da. But even you would agree this is one of those circumstances.
Her stomach churned. Not so much at what she was about to do, but at the consequences that were certain to result.
She nodded, an eerie calm sweeping over her. “I hear you, sir. Now hear me.” She locked gazes with him. “Unhand me or…” her voice faded.
“Or what?” Amusement brimmed in his voice.
“Or I shall make you.”
“Make me?” He laughed, tossing back his head. “Are you daft, girl?”
�
��Laugh all you like.” Her voice lowered a degree. “You’ve been duly warned.”
“Warned?” He shook her arm again. Hard enough to give her discomfort. She winced. “You have cheek, girl, I’ll give you that.”
She had more than cheek. Breath gusted from her lips. He was going to learn that the hard way. She wrenched free of his grasp. Grabbing him by both shoulders, she lifted her knee. Using all her force, she kneed him in the groin.
His startled gaze collided with hers the instant she made contact. The choked gurgle to follow brought a grim smile to her face. She released his shoulders and stood back, watching as he collapsed, a twisted pile of man. Low, pitiable moans tripped from his lips, reverberating through the chill evening air.
“You’re fortunate my skirts hampered me.” Propping her hands on her hips, she added, “It could have been much worse.”
“Worse!” he wheezed, sprawled on the ground and clutching himself in the most undignified fashion as he rolled side to side.
“Indeed.”
His face burned varying shades of red and purple beneath the muted glow of gaslight. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke the words she had dreaded. And yet if the truth be known, she had grown so accustomed to hearing them, they did not distress her as they should.
“Your services are no longer needed.”
Fallon sighed. Sacked again. Of course.
Chapter 2
D ominic Hale, Duke of Damon, parted the curtains of his carriage as he idly fondled the female beside him. Her plump breast overfilled his palm, precisely the way he preferred a woman’s breast to fit in his hand.
Her name escaped him, but their names always did. And, after a day or two, so did their faces.
Inhaling the cold night, he stared out at the gaslit street, searching, it seemed…for something, anything. But then he had been doing a great deal of that lately. Restlessness plagued him. As it had halfway around the world, following him home. He had hoped his return would restore him to his proper self.
He grimaced, deciding the word proper a far from apt description for him. The cheap perfume that rose to sting the inside of his nose mingled with the stink of opiates that had floated about the gaming den where he spent the evening.
He exhaled, dreading his next breath. While he might appreciate the feel of the woman in his arms, her overpowering perfume was another matter. He inched closer to the window, trying not to breathe too deeply.
The second woman in the carriage mewled for his attention. She dropped off the seat to curl at his feet in a mass of ruffled silk. Her hands slid up his boot, fingers working into his thigh like a kitten flexing her claws.
He brushed a hand over her hair as she worked at the front of his breeches, eager for the tide of sensation to flood him. In a matter of moments, her soft hand closed around the length of him and she lowered her head into his lap.
Dropping his head back against the squabs, he let the clatter of hooves fill his head, enjoying her expert mouth bringing him to life. An evening of carnal pleasure yawned before him. Two women should keep him fairly occupied. Distracted. His body could burn in a way his heart could not. The nights, the drink, the gaming, the cards, the women…for a brief time they brought him warmth. Feeling. They broke through the numbness. Temporarily at least.
He gazed at the shining puddles of rainwater outside the carriage and waited. Then, after a few moments, frowned.
The usual sensations eluded him. The harsh pleasure he knew so well, the wild, searing sensations that reminded him he was alive…none emerged. Even as his body responded, the awful emptiness clung to him with a tenacious fist.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, he stared out at the night, catching the hazy reflection of the carriage in the glass of the darkened storefronts they passed. Suddenly his view was broken, the string of shops interrupted by a pair of tussling figures.
He straightened against the squabs at the glimpse of a female, her dark cloak whipping in the night as she fought a man. He caught sight of a pale face with impossibly wide eyes. Dominic shoved the woman’s head from his lap, turning on his seat for a better look. Unfortunately he could see no more. The carriage had passed the pair.
Hastily rearranging his clothing, he rapped on the carriage roof. “Halt!”
The women squealed in dismay as they jerked to a stop. The one on the floor rolled onto her back in a flurry of fuchsia skirts, her tiny slippers kicking in the air in a desperate attempt to gain leverage.
Dominic had never aspired to be a gentleman. Quite the opposite. Still, he found himself seized with an impulse to act, to do something that could only be deemed gentlemanly. Amid his travels, he had saved others—all urchins. Helpless souls, innocent victims. As he once had been. Before he grew to manhood. Before Mrs. Pearce broke him. Before a life of depravity became second nature.
Lurching from the carriage, he hastened down the sidewalk, jerking to an abrupt stop at the sight before him.
Hands propped on her hips, the female—a towering Amazon—stood over her attacker. Or perhaps more appropriately, her victim. In the brief time the carriage had passed the pair, she had turned the tables on her attacker. Scratching his jaw, he eyed the hapless young man writhing at her feet, clutching himself between the legs. His flushed face contorted, and Dominic winced.
“Do you need any assistance?” he asked rather lamely. Clearly she did not require help.
Her head snapped up, bright eyes focusing on him. Beneath the gaslights, he couldn’t be certain their color, only that they glittered boldly, her gaze direct in a way he had not seen before. On a woman, at any rate.
She looked him up and down as if he were little better than the wretch sprawled at her feet. Her nostrils flared as though she did not like what she smelled. Likely the cheap perfume of his companions. “I have the situation well in hand, thank you, sir.”
He nodded, eyeing the mass of her hair, gilded fire beneath the gaslamps. He hungrily drank the sight, memorizing the color, envisioning it on canvas, trying to imagine what mix of his oils might best recapture it. “I see that.”
Her gaze fixed distrustfully on him. Granting him wide berth, she stepped around her erstwhile attacker and continued down the sidewalk, her steps bold, confidant. Extraordinary. Nothing like the dainty steps of most women.
Tossing one last glance at the groaning young man, he moved to catch up with her. “Perhaps I can offer a lift?” He motioned to his carriage.
She paused beneath a street lamp and he was allowed a moment to fully appreciate the glory of hair. He could scarcely take note of her face for all that hair, beckoning his eyes. The mélange of red, gold, and brown tumbled past her shoulders, the pins sticking out oddly. He imagined with all the pins removed it would reach her waist. A sudden image of her astride him, his hands sliding over her long legs as she rode him, her head tilted back so that the incredible mass of her hair tickled his thighs, speared him in a blinding flash of heat.
Her eyes narrowed beneath brows several shades darker than the rest of her hair. “You stopped for me?”
“You appeared in need of help.” He cocked his head. “I trust you are unharmed.”
She sent a glare over her shoulder. “It would take more than that boy to gain the upper hand with me.”
“Ah.” He nodded gravely while he marveled at her mettle. “Then he is the one in need. Should I tend to him?”
Her lips twitched, but she did not smile at his jest. Indeed, he wondered if she ever smiled. There was something hard about her. Something unyielding, as if she never allowed herself to relax.
He spoke again into the hovering silence. “I fear you’ve made me feel quite useless. You must allow me to convey you to your destination safely.”
Her gaze drifted to his carriage, and he could tell she was debating the matter. He found himself staring at her shadowed profile, the high brow, the strong line of her nose, the full, wide mouth. She was no beauty, to be sure. But there was something about her. Something untamed and e
arthy. No doubt many a man yearned to part those long legs of hers and sample such an uncommon woman.
His cock stirred, straining against his breeches. Excitement zinged through him. The excitement eluding him earlier. He dragged his gaze away from her, his mind quickly working…determining how best to seduce her into his bed for the night. That’s what he did best, after all. When he wasn’t bedding a woman whose morals were as equally flawed as his own, he corrupted innocent and well-heeled ladies. That was his life’s vocation. And painting. When he lost himself in a canvas, he felt alive. Plowing a woman’s thighs and creating a new world on canvas…it was all he knew. All he did. All that ever penetrated the numbness dwelling inside him.
“The hour’s late.” He glanced up and down the street. A hack passed the silent store fronts, its dark curtains drawn. The driver’s eyes narrowed on Fallon with insolent speculation. Hardly a safe setting for a lone woman. “The next man you come across may not be so easy to dissuade as that boy.” He motioned to the lad who now staggered away at the far end of the street.
Eyes as cagey as a cornered animal, she assessed him. No doubt wondering whether he was one such next man.
He’d nearly forgotten his companions, but remembering, and hoping their presence might reassure her, he murmured, “I’m not alone. I have companions. Ladies.” Of a sort.
Some rigidity seemed to lessen from her stance then. She studied the carriage a long moment. “Very well. A lift would be appreciated. I’m venturing to the Hotel Daventry.”
Dominic took her elbow and led her to the carriage, pausing to call up the destination to his driver. Only a short time to change her mind. The Hotel Daventry was but five minutes away.
He could not help noticing as he assisted her within his coach that she smelled spicy—a peppery blend of sweet and savory. As a boy, he spent a good deal of time in the kitchen, avoiding Mrs. Pearce in preference of the cook’s kind attentions. This woman evoked those long-ago memories, smelling of baking bread, savory stew, and chocolate tart all at once.
Sins of a Wicked Duke Page 2
