An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

The quiet words pierced her. She bit the inside of her cheek, calling on the pain to keep all emotion from her face.

  “Until the riots are over, until you’re done with the Home Office,” Filipe ordered, “you cannot be here. Men are after you. Our friends won’t trust you.” He shook his head. “I can’t trust you.”

  She sucked in a mouthful of air. Exile…

  “I want you to leave. Tonight. Take whatever you want.” He paused as if wanting to say something more. But he looked away and finished, “Don’t come back until you’re invited.”

  A knot of emotion strangled in her throat. Unable to speak, Veronica nodded tightly.

  “Come, Ivy.” He reached down to take the girl’s arm, pulled her gently to her feet, and slipped his arm around Ivy’s still shaking shoulders as she continued to sob. As he led her away, he nodded silently at the body.

  Clean up your mess. The words lingered as palpably as if he’d uttered them.

  Veronica’s eyes blurred with unshed tears. She met Filipe’s gaze for only a beat before he flipped back the sailcloth and left the room. Ivy never looked back.

  Her chest convulsed as she pulled in shallow, quick breaths and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! She wouldn’t let anyone hear one sound of the agony and desolation that gripped her. Hadn’t she already learned that lesson, so long ago and at such a high price? Tears solved nothing. Crying only made a woman appear weak and helpless, only invited ridicule and abuse.

  But the tears came anyway, falling hot and silent, faster than she could wipe them away. She wrapped her arms around her middle and folded over herself onto the floor as she cried out her wretchedness in silent, shaking sobs.

  She couldn’t stay. She had to leave before Filipe returned. Despite the pain that churned inside her, her arms and legs were numb as she shoved herself to her feet and reached down to grab the dead man under his arms, to drag him toward the hall. She gritted her teeth, pulled hard, and shuffled her feet backward toward the sailcloth flap. She grabbed it and threw it out of the way.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement on the other side of her room. She froze, taking several terrified beats to realize it was her own reflection in the mirror.

  A strange woman gazed back, her face ghostly white and her hair collapsing down the side of her head. Blood was everywhere…puddled on the floor, streaking the ripped sailcloth behind her, splattered across the front of her gown…marking her. And at her slippers lay a dead body.

  Her stomach churned until she thought she might be sick, until she had to place a hand against her belly to keep from casting up her accounts. This was what her life was now. That image captured in the mirror all she represented…

  Death and destruction.

  Good Lord, what had she become? What kind of monster had fate turned her into? Lonely, hopeless…

  She didn’t want this life. She’d never belonged here with Filipe among his cronies and the Court, should be glad she no longer had an obligation to be here for all that his father had done for her. She didn’t belong to the night and to the death and pain it wrought—

  Her eyes blurred until the gown’s reflection in the mirror was nothing but a green smear. Nothing but a stained and ruined reminder that she didn’t belong to society either.

  She belonged nowhere in the world.

  The stab of isolation and loneliness struck her so powerfully that a strangled sound tore from the back of her throat.

  Dear God—she had no one! No one to take her in. No one to give her comfort.

  Except…perhaps one.

  Eighteen

  Merritt lay in his bed and stared at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep.

  After an hour of patrolling—actually more of an hour of solid running in an attempt to lose the ghosts that chased him tonight—he gave up and came home to a dark and silent house. But sleep was proving impossible.

  Being here was worse than being at the Armory. How his friends had confronted him tonight was infuriating as hell and none of their damn business. But here, his own thoughts haunted him, with no escape.

  He turned onto his side and punched at his pillow.

  He shouldn’t have come home tonight. He should have stayed on the streets. He should have gone back to the Ship’s Bell and dug deeper for any leads on Smathers. He should have been watching Malmesbury’s mistress—hell, he should have gone to Madame Noir’s if nothing else. Not to enjoy the girls but simply to find distraction in Madame’s sharp insults and baiting. Anything to distract him from the riots, Joanna’s ghost, and the temptation of Veronica Chase.

  Damnation! He flopped over onto his back and draped his forearm over his face. Dawn was still hours away. Maybe he could go to the nearest inn, rent a horse, ride out for air and—

  A soft creak from the staircase split the silence.

  The tiny hairs on his arms stood on end. He held his breath and strained to listen, waiting for another creak, another footstep on the stairs. He employed no live-in servants, and the housekeeper who kept the small town house for him and cooked his meals had left at dusk, just as she always did, and wouldn’t be back until morning.

  Slowly, he reached beneath the bed for the knife he kept there.

  Another creak. This time from the top stair.

  He didn’t make a sound, didn’t move except to close his hand around the knife handle. Every muscle tensed with readiness to spring.

  The door handle jangled, and the door opened slowly. The figure paused in the frame, silhouetted by the moonlight—

  “Veronica,” he whispered, releasing the knife.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes as she stepped into the room and silently closed the door behind her. She looked otherworldly standing there in her ball gown like a ghost draped in shadows. Her face was hidden by the darkness, except for her piercing eyes, which shone with intensity.

  She didn’t move, as if not quite believing herself that she was there.

  “Is something wrong?” He sat up as concern tightened in his chest. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.” With that cryptic answer, she slowly reached up to remove the pins from her hair. She slipped them free and tossed them away, unwanted. Each pinged quietly against the floor in the silence of the house.

  When she ran a hand through her hair to loosen her tresses, Merritt felt the smooth glide of her fingers from across the room. It shivered through him with a liquid heat.

  Which did nothing to ease his worry at her unexpected visit. “How did you get inside?”

  “A wicked and wild wind.” She stalked slowly toward him. Each silent step tingled his naked skin beneath the bedcover that draped over him from the waist down. “It blew open the door and invited me in.”

  Sweet Lucifer. He was dreaming. He had to have fallen asleep and was dreaming…

  She stopped at the foot of the bed. “Do you want me to leave?”

  Leave? Good God, no! But he coolly shrugged a bare shoulder and somehow kept his voice from cracking with need. “You can stay if you’d like.”

  “I’d like.”

  So would he. Sweet mercy, so very much!

  And yet… “But there’s a price to pay if you do,” he told her quietly. His heart pounded at the terms of surrender he was offering, terrified she wouldn’t accept them. He wanted her to reveal more to him tonight than her body—he wanted to learn her secrets. “The truth.”

  She stared at him for a long while, silent and still, as if her heart was debating with itself over whether she could put her faith in him.

  Trust me, Veronica. Please trust me…

  Then she reached behind her for the row of tiny buttons at her back. Her gaze never left his as she tore them open with a small tug. That soft rip shot through him, straight down to the tip of his stiffening cock.

 
“My surname isn’t Chase.” Her voice emerged as soft as the shadows around them. “It’s Chaves. I was born in Portugal.” She slowly slipped the dress’s cap sleeve off her left shoulder and bared it to the shadows. “I’m the daughter of the Count of Redondo.” With her other hand, she pushed down the opposite sleeve, and the bodice sagged loosely over her bosom. “My mother was his mistress.”

  Understanding fell through him. That was why she’d learned so quickly from Madame Noir how to behave at the ball, to carry herself, to properly greet everyone she might meet. Why she was so well educated.

  But that certainly didn’t explain everything. So he remained perfectly still and let her continue, knowing even the smallest movement or softest word would silence her.

  “She was only his mistress, not his wife, but he cared for her and provided well for us. Fine clothing, grand houses and carriages…all kinds of wonderful things.” She slipped her arms out of her dress. “Until the French and Spanish invaded and destroyed everything.”

  She let go of the gown.

  The air slid from his lungs as easily as the satin slipped through her fingers and down over her hips to puddle on the floor around her feet. She stood before him in her underclothes, their whiteness making her seem even more ethereal.

  “They burned down our home and killed my mother.” She stepped out of her slippers and took a single step forward in her stocking feet, leaving the gown behind. “They almost killed me—would have killed me if not for Jabir. He was a career soldier, a mercenary working for the Portuguese. He felt sorry for me and took me away with him.”

  Merritt stared at her as she gave her soft explanation. He was afraid to say anything for fear she would vanish back into the night, like an apparition.

  “I was still a child, not yet ten. But the country had been invaded, the cities destroyed, the countryside was unsafe… Redondo had fled for Italy, and I had no one to turn to for help. No one but Jabir. He raised me as if I were his own daughter, right along with his son.”

  “Filipe,” Merritt guessed quietly. She’d said the man was like a brother to her, but that confirmation didn’t stop the jealousy from burning in his gut.

  She nodded and reached behind her to tangle her fingers in her short corset’s lace. “Jabir taught me about weapons and how to fight. He needed someone Filipe could spar against for practice, but I was the better fighter.” A proud smile teased faintly at her lips. “I still am.”

  She pulled the lace free. The corset loosened and dropped to the floor, followed by her petticoat. With every discarded piece of clothing came another confession.

  “During the wars, we had no choice but to work for the Spanish and the French. For the enemy. I became a mercenary, too, just like Jabir and Filipe, working alongside the soldiers in all kinds of reconnaissance missions.” A small hesitation before she admitted, “I killed men when I had to in order to survive.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides as she let him look at her, her soul bared nearly as much now as her body. She stood in front of him in nothing but shift and stockings. In the slant of moonlight, he could just discern the curves of her full breasts and hips, the patch of curls nestled between her thighs.

  “When the Allies finally arrived, we switched sides and worked for them until the Peninsula was freed. Then the war moved north into France and went on without us.” She bent over to reach beneath her chemise for her stockings, her hair falling forward in a fiery curtain that hid her face. But she couldn’t conceal the pain in her voice. “By then, we’d been separated. Jabir was dead, Filipe had already left for England, Redondo was God only knows where…and I had no reason to stay. So I followed Filipe to London to start a new life here.” Her shoulders trembled as she untied the stocking and rolled it down her leg, over her foot, and off. “I was wrong.” The stocking slipped through her fingers to the floor. “I’m just as trapped here as I was in Portugal.”

  She fell silent as she removed the second stocking, rolling it off her leg and dropping it away with its mate. She wore only a thin, sleeveless shift now, yet she possessed all the dignity of a queen as her intense gaze held his through the shadows.

  “When the Winslow warehouse was broken into last year, one of Filipe’s men was captured and gave testimony against him. I had to save him…for all his father had done for me, for all he does for the people of Saffron Hill.” Her hand trembled as she ran it through her hair, to sift the silky curls away from her forehead, just as she was sifting through the dark memories. “So I persuaded Fernsby to claim he’d caught me outside the warehouse that night, to testify that it was me who led the raid and that Filipe wasn’t even there.” Her hand fell to her side. “I went to prison to protect Filipe and the Court of Miracles. I sacrificed myself so he could remain free.”

  She was innocent. Exactly what Clayton had believed from the beginning and what Merritt had been unwilling to accept. Until now.

  “I never did what I claimed in court. I was never at that warehouse—nor at any warehouse. I’ve never been part of their activities. Please believe me.” Her voice was haunting as she whispered so softly that he could barely hear her, “I need you to believe…”

  He held out his hand and rasped out hoarsely, “I do.”

  Veronica’s heart pounded as she crawled onto the bed and slowly made her way toward Merritt on her hands and knees. Her eyes never broke contact with his. Dear God, how much she wanted this night with him, more than she’d wanted anything else in her life—

  No. That was a lie.

  What she wanted more than anything else was the chance at a future with him. But that would never happen. She could never be his in the daylight world.

  But here in the dark, he could be hers. If only for the night.

  “I think you should know,” she warned as she moved up the length of his body, “I might not be a criminal, but I’m also not an innocent.”

  “And I think you should know,” he warned in return, “neither am I.”

  She stopped and blinked. Only Merritt could tease like that at a time like this. With all the emotions the events of tonight had set churning inside her, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  But she knew she loved him.

  “Good,” she purred and continued up his body.

  When she reached his waist, she pulled away the blanket that covered him. She held her breath, then dared to look down.

  He was completely naked, and the sight of him thrilled her. Magnificent, that was the thought that popped into her head as she raked her gaze over his lean and muscular body. His manhood lay against his thigh, already half erect even though she had yet to touch him. What would happen when she did? How hard and large could she make him? How much pleasure could she give?

  Teasingly, she trailed her fingertip down his length, from the nest of dark hair at his abdomen to the round tip—

  With a soft curse, he jumped beneath her touch and sucked in a mouthful of air.

  His reaction only emboldened her to do it again, this time closing her hand around his thick girth and stroking up and down until she drew a groan from the back of his throat. Every slide of her hand made her revel in how the softness of his skin contrasted against the steely hardness beneath.

  Not pausing in her slow strokes over him, she used her free hand to lift her shift out of the way so she could straddle him. Tonight, every bit of this wonderful, amazing man would be hers to take pleasure from and give pleasure to in return. Never had she found any man who was as much her equal in every way as Merritt—physically, emotionally, mentally. And tonight, she planned on showing him exactly how much.

  When he tenderly touched her cheek, she took his hand and guided it down between her legs to the feminine folds that ached to possess him. His long fingers caressed her in smooth, slow glides that stirred the heat inside her until she trembled just as much as he did. Until she was slick and hot with evide
nce of her desire for him, until she quivered with shameless need.

  His intimate touch was more than she could bear, yet still not enough. When he grazed that sensitive little nib buried in her folds, a throaty moan tore from her. She wanted him inside her, needed him there, both body and soul.

  “Merritt,” she whispered and gently pushed his hand away so she could rise onto her knees, pointed the tip of his erection against her throbbing core like an arrow, and lowered herself over him.

  She shuddered with pleasure as his hard length slid deep inside her. He filled her so completely that for a moment, she could do nothing more than sit still and let her body adjust to his. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of holding him inside her, to brand the delicious sensation on her mind so she could carry it in her memory long after he’d disappeared from her life.

  Wonderful… It was so wonderful to be with him like this that her eyes stung with emotion. But when she opened them and gazed down into his, his desire for her nearly undid her.

  Tonight, he would be her rock to keep from falling away. Making love to him would be a benediction, and he would give her absolution. He would give her the strength and resolve she needed to go on. Without him.

  She cupped his face between her hands and leaned in to kiss him, granting herself this lingering taste of him before she let go completely of her heart and made love to him.

  She began to pulse her hips against his in small but eager thrusts. He murmured her name and clasped her hips to help guide her in their quickening tempo as she rocked herself over him. These small plunges and retreats were nothing but a tease of what she knew would come, of the desperate desire brewing in both of them that would eventually be satiated beyond the edge of control. But even now, her body tingled from the small jolts of electricity that pulsed into her belly, from the way the tiny muscles inside her deliciously clenched and released around him.

  “Jesus!” He sat up, startled, and his hips froze beneath her. He craned his neck to stare at her side where his hand rested on her hip, where dark stains had seeped through her dress into the white cotton shift beneath. “Blood. What the hell happ—”