What she had to do.
But even as she pressed her knife to his golden skin, she knew she couldn’t.
She couldn’t kill him.
Which meant there was just a single option left.
But before she fled, she had to know…
“Why couldn’t you have forgotten about me?” Genuinely puzzled, she searched the rigid lines of his face for the answer. “We didn’t love each other. We didn’t even like each other. After I left, you could have had any woman you wanted. Why continue to chase after me?”
In the air, his hands curled into fists. “Because you’re mine.”
Artemis stiffened. “I belong to no one, least of all you.”
With a blade against his neck, he grinned. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“We’re never going to see each other again.” Even as she spoke the words aloud, Artemis couldn’t deny that they rang hollow, even to her own ears. She and Warwick would meet again. She was almost sure of it. But next time…next time she wasn’t going to let herself be distracted by a kiss. A kiss that had felt like everything…and had changed nothing.
“I am never going to marry you,” she vowed. “You’ve nothing to gain by continuing this.”
His expression vaguely pitying, Warwick shook his head, causing the edge of the knife to slice into his skin and a drop of blood to trickle down his neck. This time, however, he didn’t so much as flinch. “We’re promised, Amelia. And I never break my promises. Which is why you’d be much better served to surrender quietly, before you hurt yourself. Because you will belong to me. One way or another.”
Her eyes narrowed.
The duke’s arrogance was appalling.
And but one of the many reasons she’d run from him in the first place.
“It’s Artemis,” she said between clenched teeth. “And I’ll see you in hell first.”
Knowing her most important advantage was the element of surprise, she didn’t allow herself the luxury of hesitation. Turning her arm inward, she jabbed her elbow into Warwick’s neck while simultaneously stomping her heel into his instep. It was a trick she’d learned from Hattie, one of Molly’s girls, and it was as simple as it was effective.
When Warwick cursed and stumbled back a step, Artemis bounded past him, pausing to yank her knife out of the wall before she leapt out the door. She could hear the duke behind her, his footsteps as heavy on the cracked and broken cobblestones as hers were light.
If she stayed out in the open, he’d have her in a matter of seconds. She was fast, faster than almost anyone she knew, but she couldn’t outrun a man of Warwick’s size and athletic ability. Which was why she turned into the first alley she came across, dodging around drunks still sleeping off their gin and piles of trash until she came to a jumbled tower of wooden crates.
A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that Warwick was still very much behind her, and closing fast. The bastard was just like a wolf. Fearless, relentless, fierce. And if she wanted to avoid all those sharp teeth, she needed to as daring and desperate as a fox.
Skimming her tongue between her lips, she grabbed onto the crate nearest her head and hauled herself up. Crate by crate she scaled the tower, careful to test the wood’s strength before she used it to push herself higher as her pulse roared in her ears. There was a window near the top, and if she didn’t fall–a rather gruesome possibility–she’d be able to climb through it and get away. Warwick might have been able to catch up to her in the streets, but he’d never be able to follow her through the twisted corridors of an abandoned factory. If she could only…get…a…little…higher…
Beneath her, Warwick gave a shout of warning that turned into a curse when the crate beneath her right foot suddenly cracked and gave way. “Be careful! You’re going to–bollocks!”
As she lost her footing, Artemis grabbed frantically for the windowsill. By some small miracle, her fingertips managed to catch on the edge. For an instant, her legs swung wildly in the air. Then the toe of her boot caught on a protruding slab of brick, and she was able to hoist herself through the broken window and tumble safely inside.
A plume of dust filled her nostrils. Coughing, she rolled onto her back and stared up at a ceiling filled with cobwebs. The factory had been abandoned for years. There was no telling what sort of insects and other vermin had moved into its crumbling walls. And yet she’d rather spend a year here than a minute with Warwick in his manor.
She knew her mindset was unconventional. Some might even accuse her of suffering from lunacy. But what was crazier? Confining herself to the four walls of a parlor when there was an entire city to explore? Being forced to wear corsets that pinched and long, heavy skirts that hindered her every step? Pledging her obedience to a man who she didn’t even like, let alone love?
For Artemis, that was the definition of insanity.
Catching her breath, she rolled to her feet and dusted herself off. She’d have a few bruises come nightfall, but nothing was broken. More importantly, her daring escape had been successful.
Sauntering to the window, she peered out at Warwick. He glared up at her, his countenance a mask of tightly controlled fury.
With a smirk, Artemis brought two fingers to her brow in a mocking salute.
Then she turned and vanished into the shadows.
Chapter Four
He was going to kill her, Warwick swore to himself as he stalked back to where his carriage was waiting. He was going to catch her, and then he was going to kill her. Or maybe he’d kill her, then catch her. The order didn’t matter so much as the fact that she had humiliated him.
Again.
Had he known the quiet, meek lady he’d agreed to marry was actually a hell-cat with claws, he never would have agreed to the match. Hell, he would have taken the contract and burned it to ash. Then collected the ashes and dumped them off the nearest cliff.
But he hadn’t known–how could he?–and now he was stuck.
Stuck with a barmaid who swore like a sailor, wore clothes like a boy, and kissed like a siren.
Scowling, Warwick ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He wished he hadn’t kissed her. Because already he wanted to do it again. And again. And once more for good measure. When had he ever felt such raw, uncontrolled passion like that? The kind that couldn’t be bought or paid for. The kind that couldn’t be experienced with a mistress.
The answer, he feared, was never.
Which meant he couldn’t set fire to their betrothal agreement, however much he may have wanted to. Because, although it pained him to admit, he desired her.
Knives and all.
How trite, to actually be attracted one’s fiancée.
Were it any other poor sot, they would have had his pity. At the moment, he’d settle for a bottle of his second best brandy. The very best was reserved for his wedding day. God knew that he’d need it and more.
But did he really want to marry her?
As he climbed into his carriage and shrugged out of his jacket, Warwick pondered the question. He’d taken care to select his bride-to-be for specific qualities that she no longer seemed to possess. Namely, her docility, submissive nature, and good manners.
But there’d been nothing docile about the blade she’d thrown at his head.
And that smirk she’d given him out the window was the opposite of submissive.
As for good manners…Warwick gave a snort as the carriage lurched forward. A pack of hyenas were better behaved than Lady Amelia.
Make that Artemis Bishop.
If memory served, Artemis was the Greek Goddess of the hunt. From his studies, he vaguely recalled seeing a drawing of a woman with a bow in her hands and a fawn at her feet. The epitome of strength and softness combined.
Warwick hadn’t seen any softness in his bride-to-be, but the name did suit her. It also helped to explain how she’d been so hard to track down these past few years. He’d spent all this time searching for a debutante in a dress when he should have been
looking for a knife-wielding hellion in trousers. But now that he’d found her, what the devil was he going to do about her?
He could, he supposed, leave her alone. Pretend today had never happened, give her up for gone, and return to his idyllic life of leisure and lovers. He’d have to take a wife eventually, of course. Every Duke of Warwick needed a duchess to proliferate the family line and all that. But he had his pick of any number of eligible debutantes, none of which had bloodlust in their eye.
They wanted him for his money and his title.
Artemis didn’t want him at all.
The choice should have been an obvious one.
And yet…
As the carriage left Seven Dials behind, Warwick turned his brooding gaze to the window, his breath fogging the glass as he watched the shops roll past. He’d picked Lady Amelia to be his bride because he hadn’t envisioned any complications arising from their union. She was the impeccably bred daughter of a well-respected earl. He’d planned to wed her, and bed her, and forget her. As any lord in their right mind was expected to do. But while Lady Amelia was entirely forgettable, Artemis Bishop was…not. And if he married her, his life would undoubtedly be filled with complications. The least of which would include finding a way to keep himself from being stabbed to death in his sleep.
His fiery fiancée belonged in bedlam, not his bedchamber.
And yet….
The horses slowed as they approached Grosvenor Square. Warwick’s manor was one of two homes on Norfolk Street, an address that afforded him an unfettered view of the park. He often enjoyed morning rides before anyone else was awake, in addition to long walks after everyone had gone to bed.
Behind the veil of stoic charm that he wore so well, was a restless spirit that often chaffed at the constraints placed upon him by High Society’s expectations of how a duke should act. Normally, he was able to ignore the side of himself that clambered for more than cigar smoke in parlors and lukewarm tea in drawing rooms. But his kiss with Artemis had awoken something deep inside. Something that understood exactly why the impeccably bred daughter of a well-respected earl might give up the life she’d been given for a life that she could make her own.
Far from the judgmental eye of the ton, Artemis was able to do as she liked when she liked it. She wore what she wanted. She did as she pleased. She said whatever was on her mind. And for that, Warwick envied her.
More than that, he was intrigued by her.
Which was why he would chase after her. To the ends of the earth, if necessary. As for marriage…that remained to be seen. If not a wife, surely Artemis would make a remarkable lover. Either way, he intended to have her.
The hunter was about to become the hunted.
In times of true duress, there was only one place Artemis knew to go.
Molly’s brothel had seen many clients and doves leave and enter its doors over the years, but two things forever remained the same. The overwhelming stench of rose perfume that assaulted Artemis’ nostrils the second she stepped into the main receiving parlor, and Molly herself.
Short and curvy, the aging prostitute-turned-businesswoman had managed to maintain the illusion of ageless beauty with a concoction of creams, powders, and wigs. The last time Artemis had seen her mentor, Molly’s hair was blonde and styled in a messy coiffure. Today it was red to match both her gown and the berry stain she’d swiped across her lips.
“My dear Art!” she exclaimed, her brown eyes bright as she flung her arms wide. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
As she found herself squished against Molly’s large bosom, Artemis felt her tension begin to melt away. There was no problem, big or small, that Molly could not fix. And on the rare occasion she didn’t have the answer, she knew someone who did. If there was anyone who could help Artemis with her not-so-small dilemma, it was the woman who smelled as if she’d taken a bath in roses.
“Can we speak in private?” Artemis asked with a glance around the room. Designed like a fine parlor in an effort to put the brothel’s more distinguished clients at ease, it was furnished with paintings (all nudes) framed in gold, chairs and sofas upholstered in rich green velvet, and a pianoforte that went largely unused. In the far corner a woman, naked from the waist up, was having an intimate conversation with a heavyset gentleman while two other doves in a similar state of undress lounged by the door.
Artemis still remembered, with some amusement, how shocked she’d been when she first walked through the door. It hadn’t taken long for her sensibilities to become far less tender, and now she didn’t know if there was anything that could surprise her.
Anything except for the unexpected appearance of her fiancé, that is.
“It’s a matter of some urgency,” she went on, sweeping her braid over her shoulder as she stepped out of the embrace.
Concern flickered in Molly’s gaze. “Yes. Come with me.”
She led Artemis up the main staircase and through a wide hallway to her own personal suite of chambers where everything, even the walls, was swathed in red silk; Molly’s favourite color.
“Sit,” she invited Artemis, gesturing at a velvet divan. “I’ll make us some tea. Do you still take yours with a splash of milk?”
“Yes.” Artemis’s eye wandered around the opulent room as she waited for the tea to steep. Aside from the occasional lover (both male and female), Molly rarely invited anyone into her inner-sanctum. It was a privilege to be here, and yet, at the same time, it was somewhere Artemis could never have imagined she would ever be.
How odd life was, in that way.
Some people’s world was entirely comprised of the path that had been laid out for them before they were born. They never sought to stray from it because the idea, quite simply, never occurred to them. Had Artemis adhered to that way of thinking, she would be a duchess sipping tea in her parlor instead of a brothel. But she hadn’t just strayed from the path her parents had set for her with their strict rules and governesses and endless lessons on propriety; she’d set fire to it and then run through the flames into the forest beyond.
“Here you are,” said Molly, handing Artemis a chipped porcelain cup with steam rising from the middle of it in a spiral of hazy gray.
“Thank you.” Artemis welcomed the warmth that seeped through her fingers as she accepted the tea. Autumn had begun to unfurl across the city in a spill of red and orange, bringing with it cooler days and colder nights. Soon it would be winter, the cruelest of all seasons for those who called Seven Dials their home. Many would go hungry. More than a few would freeze to death. All while lords and ladies sat in front of their cozy fires and complained that the air was a tad stuffy.
It shamed Artemis that once upon a time she had been one of those ladies. So fixated with what was right in front of her nose that she was blind to the suffering a few miles outside her front door.
No one–not even Molly–knew that last winter she’d taken a few jobs on the side. Jobs that had provided her with the quid she needed to buy blankets, and socks, and food for those whom a bit of kindness had quite literally been the difference between life and death. Children and women, mostly. With a few pitiful looking dogs for good measure.
Helping them had given Artemis a sense of purpose that she’d never felt as the privileged daughter of an earl, flitting from ball to ball without a single care in her silly little mind. And it was another reason why she couldn’t allow Warwick to drag her back to that world of extravagant excess and heartbreaking obliviousness. She didn’t want to be the person she’d been. Not when she had become so much more.
“Now then.” Lifting her tea to her crimson lips, Molly took a slow, measured sip and then set her cup aside. “Tell me why my protégé has seen fit to darken my door. I haven’t seen you in–how long has it been, darling?”
Since Artemis had paid off her debt to Molly last year, and subsequently moved out of the brothel to her own flat above a baker’s shop, she’d only taken to working for her mentor on occasion. The assi
gnments Molly had to give always paid generously, but it was dangerous work that required Artemis to get uncomfortably close to her peers.
In the back of her mind she’d always feared Warwick would discover her creeping through a manor in Grosvenor Square. Instead, he’d found her cleaning tables in a tavern in the middle of Seven Dials.
How frustratingly ironic.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since the Herring job,” she replied, referencing Lord Herring, an earl with an eclectic art collection that her quick fingers had made several paintings lighter.
“Those fetched a handsome price, didn’t they?” Molly mused. “Ugly as sin, though. I’ll never understand the nobility’s attraction to pictures of fields and ponds. Why would you want a painting of something you can walk out your front door and see for yourself?”
“Nothing the nobility does makes much sense,” Artemis said darkly.
“You’d know, I suppose. Being one of them.”
Her brows snapped together. “I am not one of them.”
“We can always mold ourselves into something new, my dear, but we have to get the clay from somewhere.” Lifting her cup, Molly ran her thumb along the rim. “A man hasn’t paid for the pleasure of my body in nearly a decade, and yet I’m still looked upon as a whore. For some, that is all I ever will be.”
“I don’t view you that way,” Artemis frowned.
Molly smiled kindly. “And I don’t view you as a lady brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth, but for some– including that duke of yours–that is who you are.”
Her eyes slowly narrowing, Artemis stood up. “You know, then.”
“About your connection to the Duke of Warwick? Yes, I’ve always been aware.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A fair point.
Her footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet, Artemis crossed the room to the window. Molly’s private chambers had the best view in the entire brothel. If Artemis squinted and tilted her head just so, she could almost imagine a tiny sliver of green from Hyde Park. One of the few things she did still miss about her old life was the open spaces and cozy, shading walking trails of London’s largest park. How many mornings had she stolen away to wander the bridle paths without anyone being the wiser? A foreshadowing, she supposed, what was to come.
Seducing the Siren of Seven Dials (Secret Wallflower Society Book 4) Page 3
