by Erica Monroe
“I assure you, I am the image of solemnity.” His sly smile did nothing to convince her.
“If this is an attempt to get me closer to you—oof!”
His hand crept forward, wrapped around her ankle. He tugged and she tumbled to the ground, landing on her back an arm's length from him. Snow soaked her cloak. Sank in through her skirt to wet her petticoats.
“You can go to the devil,” she muttered, turning her head to glare at him.
He didn't even try to hide his smug grin. “Such foul language from a pretty lady.”
Pretty. No man had ever called her pretty once he knew of her scars. Suddenly the snow soaking her clothes didn't feel so cold.
“If it is foul language you want...” She began playfully. “You're a bloody, wanking rotter, Michael Strickland, a bastard better fit for poxed parasitic hog grubbers and ark ruffians. Have you lost every shred of decency in your wastrel, distended mind?”
“Oh, Abigail,” Michael mock sighed. “Have a bit of fun. It shan't kill you.”
She flinched. The last time she’d viewed life with such flippancy, she’d paid dearly. But she wouldn’t let his words trouble her. She’d consider this another opportunity to practice her theatric skills.
“I'll be the judge of that.” She shook her arm, snow scattering off her cloak. “I hope you're composing your essay as we loiter, for I expect it in full as soon as we return.”
“Au contraire,” he objected. “I've already won the bet. I saw you smile earlier.”
“I smile because your idiocy amuses me,” she quipped, a chortle escaping from her throat before she could stop it. He was so comical, sprawled out in the snow like a lazy cat in a sunbeam.
His booming laughter resonated through the empty garden. The sound engulfed her; brought forth more chuckles of her own, until for the second time that day her shoulders shook, her sides ached, and her breath gave in uneven pants.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like this, an all-consuming tide of merriment that deafened her doubts.
Damn him. Damn her inability to stay mad at him. Damn how in a week it all wouldn't matter anymore.
Her laughter died out in a strangled gulp of sorrow. What little bliss she'd found here would be ripped from her soon. There’d be no one like Michael to care for her then. She almost wished she'd never spent time with him—never known him—because in an unrelenting cycle of drudgery she'd accepted pain as the new normal.
His strong hand gripped her arm, fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak. “Abigail,” he murmured, as if he feared breaking into her reverie. His tone was respectful, containing none of the teasing notes of before.
Somehow that made this harder. Not just being here with him, but all those in-between details. If she ever again wore fine dresses or had porridge with jam that didn't taste of grit and grime, it wouldn’t be with him. She’d be with some other man, hopefully with a fat enough purse that she could afford to send Bess to school.
The past few days had spoiled her. Left her wanting this, to live in this dream world, for longer than two weeks. Maybe it would have been better never to come here. She’d forgotten what happiness felt like. How could she go on to a brothel after this?
Lying in the snow—the stupid, cold snow—next to Michael made her feel sheltered. Wasn't that the greatest lie of them all? There'd be no shelter, no security, for a woman like her.
She ought to know better.
She did know better.
Abigail drew back. She was about to push herself up from the ground, to end this false start. There could be nothing between them. Not now, not ever.
Michael patted her arm. “Where'd you go, Abigail?”
She blinked. “I've not gone anywhere. I've been here with you in this blasted snow, though it defies every bit of logic.”
He shook his head. “That's not what I mean, and you know it. All was fine—you were laughing, you looked happy. Then you went quiet. Something's bothering you, little lamb, and I'd like to know what.”
She ran a hand down her skirt, brushing off more snow. She didn’t meet his eyes. She couldn't bear his compassion, any more than she could bear his charity.
Propping herself up, she rested her weight on her elbows and dug her boots into the snow. “It is nothing.”
Please, please, believe me.
“Nothing is what you chits say when you're plotting something,” he noted. “And nothing is what you claim when you want a gent to back off. But unfortunately for you, I'm not a gentleman.”
She remembered their kiss in the library. No, he most certainly was not. But maybe she didn’t need a gentleman in her life—maybe she needed a rogue.
“I'm a crass inspector whose ties to any part of good society vanished in the dirt of the rookeries. I find out secrets for a living. So, tell me.” He slid closer, circling his arm around her waist and pulling her toward him. “Or I could tickle it out of you.”
The brush of his fingers against her side sent a thrilling jolt through her, while the frigidness of the ground warred with her quickly heating body. He spread out his hand, his fingertips feathering across her rib cage.
She shook her head.
He scraped his fingertips across her side. Dug in, not too harsh, but in that exact spot between her waist and hip that made her squirm. Oh, how his touch cut through her! Her nerves were raw. She slapped at his hand, trying to get away from him. He held her to him, the strokes of his fingers unrelenting.
She couldn't help it. He had her under his control. The prickles were so fierce they stole her breath. She laughed until her throat was raw and she gasped for air.
“Very well, I'll tell you!” She shrieked, with another smack to his hand.
“Good. I knew you'd see reason.” He released her, and she tumbled out of his grip.
“Reason and you have no business being in the same sentence.” She sniffed, sitting up. She pushed down on her right hand, balancing herself awkwardly as she lifted herself up. Once standing, she readjusted her hat so that it fitted properly, and brushed the snow off her gloves. “I'm going inside, Michael. A hot cup of tea and a biscuit would do me wonders.”
“What about the snow angels?” He protested with a frown, as though he was a boy and she'd taken away the prospect of pudding. “We can't do it here, since we've mucked up the snow thoroughly.” He stood, coming to join her.
When she rubbed her arms up and down her sleeves for warmth, he came up behind her, enfolding his arms around her.
She leaned back into him. For warmth reasons, of course. It was not because of how his breath against her neck sent private tickles up her spine, or because the whisper of his rough voice against her ear made her long to be wanton.
To her surprise, he pulled from her, undoing the buttons of his coat. Then he came back, enveloping her in a clinch. The folds of fabric fell around her. The sun had come out, and for a few seconds she forgot she was outdoors in the middle of winter.
“There, that's better.” He ceased rubbing his hands up and down her arms. “Sometimes all you need is proximity to fight the cold.”
That certainly wasn't sensible. She didn't need his presence. Not this man she'd known for five days, despite the way he'd anticipated her wishes and quelled her anxious spirit.
As if he sensed her thoughts, he spun her around. Somehow, he managed it so she was still wrapped in his coat, but now facing him. “Now, tell me what concerns you.”
She flinched. “I was thinking...”
He smiled, the sly smile that'd become so familiar to her. “I could smell the smoke.”
The corners of her lips twisted in an answering smile, to her discontent. “I suppose I've earned that, with my earlier remarks. But I was thinking about how lovely it is here.”
“Told you I won the bet,” he crowed. “You do like the snow. The Earl of Rochester awaits, my dear.”
“Wait, that's not what I meant.” She tunneled her hands into the pockets of her cloak; half-wis
hing the ground might swallow her up and end this uncomfortable conversation. “Well, I suppose it is somewhat, but there's more.”
“With women, there always is,” he drawled.
“You're incorrigible.” She rolled her eyes. “Before, I was thinking that I'll be sad to say goodbye to this place. I miss my sister, yes, but there's something...almost soothing about your home. Smithers treats me as some high society woman—when I'm below him—and you let me be myself.”
“Abigail, you know you’re welcome here.” The giddiness faded from Michael's features. Tucking her closer to him, he rested his chin upon the top of her head.
She fingered the shiny silver lapels of his waistcoat, holding tight to him as if she could anchor him here forever. The strapping planes of his chest turned her insides into the worst of jellies.
Nice women didn't allow men to hold them so close, and certainly not outdoors where anyone might see them. Society had forgotten her when she couldn't contribute any longer, so why the devil should Abigail be a nice woman? She needed to learn to tup a man. Better to learn from Michael, who’d make sure it was pleasurable.
“You said I'd keep my virtue until I see fit.” She stumbled over the whispered words, rubbing the silk of his waistcoat between her gloved thumb and forefinger. “I want to become a Cyprian. But maybe I want to create memories with you before I do.”
“Abigail, we don’t have to do that.” His voice came out strained, his eyes darkening with desire.
His coat dropped away from her shoulders at the movement, but she no longer cared about the frigid weather. She'd face a blizzard if it meant they could stay like this.
“I am not a good man.” His eyes were unsettling dark cobalt, while his voice held an edge that flipped her stomach. “I'm a scoundrel.”
“You know my story,” she reminded him. “A fairytale happily ever after isn't in my cards. I don't care that you're wicked, or that you can't give me more than this.”
“But you should care,” he countered. “And I bloody can't believe I'm saying this, but you shouldn't want me, Abigail.”
“I’m damn tired of people telling me what my emotions should be.” Her expression hardened. Once her time ended here, every desire she had would be secondary to the wants of whoever owned her. She’d never again have an independent thought.
If that was what she needed to do to give Bess a better life, then she’d do it. But she still had a few more days left with him. Days she could spend in his arms, pretending that this bond between them was real.
He released her hands, but remained with her, close enough that she could ascertain every thread of his starched linen shirt. “I've used any number of tricks to get women into bed. I ought to regret this, of course, but I don't. I have rules. Never take an innocent, and never take a woman who isn't willing. But the rest I’ve left up to chance.”
I'm willing. I want you to make the pain go away.
She met his gaze. She wouldn't look away. Wouldn't hide behind the walls she'd created. She was damn tired of being ashamed. Every day, she paid the price for another's mistakes. Maybe, just maybe, she deserved peace too.
“Is it wrong to want one good memory before I'm a moll?”
His face twisted, seized by a sudden onslaught of sadness. “Balls, woman, not every moll leads an unhappy life. Think of the wealth you might have someday.”
She gulped down the panic welling in her throat. “There's no point in pretending I’m not going to have to whore, is there? I ought to commit fully to the effort.”
“You could do that,” he said. “Or you could live out your remaining days here simply enjoying yourself. Plenty of people live their lives in delusions. Hell, half my childhood was spent helping my mother have tea parties with her imaginary friends.”
She shuddered. Michael had an even worse childhood than she did.
“Look, if you don’t want to become a courtesan, we'll figure something out,” he said. “Surely, there’s another job out there for you. Something that will make you happy.”
She broke free of his embrace, taking three steps back from him.
He tracked her movements, but not with the cool, calculated reasoning of an inspector. The flare of his nostrils and the break in his tone all indicated he was influenced by her emotion.
“I can't weave any longer, nor can I trundle a cart. I've no formal education and no references. No one would allow a cripple in service.” She turned from him, starting down the path. There was no point to this winter excursion anymore. She’d marred the calm with her foolhardy impulse to make this into something more than a friendly walk.
“I'll make it better,” he promised. “I can protect you.”
She didn't stop. Didn't turn around. His words fell on deaf ears, for she knew damn well there was no hope.
“Abigail, come back here,” he pleaded, a note of appeal in his voice she'd never heard before.
Still she walked.
He jogged after her, intercepting her as she crossed under a trellis. Coming up behind her, he grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. For a second, she stood there; flush against him, her breath bated. She didn't recognize this side of him, the storm of emotions flashing across his face. Longing, desperation, sadness...and something she knew immediately as burning desire.
He cupped her chin in his hands, pulling her head up. And then he kissed her, devouring her lips with his own. Their kiss before had been about two combatants gauging one another’s weaknesses. But this was so much more—fierce and vulnerable. Her body responded instantaneously in a whirl of tightened muscles and tingling toes.
In that instant, she thought of nothing else but the glide of their joined lips and the perfect way he enveloped her. Kissing Michael became like learning to walk. Slow at first, but she grew more adventurous as the kiss continued. He traced the curvature of her lips with his tongue, memorized the shape of her mouth.
She kissed him back, following his rhythm. A groan tore from him, an eager, salacious noise that she'd caused. He tasted her bottom lip, making those little bird wings in her stomach flap so frantically she wondered if her body was truly airborne.
To hell with reading Wilmot, she was living Wilmot! Her fingers tangled in his hair, as he angled her chin with one hand to deepen their kiss. Her knees went weak, but his other hand pushed into the small of her back, supporting her.
He released her mouth to travel his kisses down her chin, his tongue tickling her delicate skin. He nipped her, his teeth grazing her collarbone. The combination of pleasure and pain brought her higher. She was spiraling, spiraling as his hands found her breasts, cupping the already tender buds with his leather gloves. He caressed her with equal parts rhythm and gentleness, bringing forth the most salacious of moans.
In these long moments she did not breathe; she loved. She did not think; she felt. In his arms she was no longer broken, but a willing, wanting woman.
She never wanted it to end.
But like every other happy moment in Abigail Vautille's short life, the kiss concluded. He released her. She stumbled back without the balustrade of his arms. Raising a finger to her lips, she touched where his kiss had been.
Neither spoke. She couldn't read his face. He seemed as shaken as she was. She tried to formulate something intelligent to say, but as she remained gaping, he strode off to the house.
The kiss had surprised him too.
She watched him go, not one word said. The door to the garden slammed shut behind him and it was just her, alone in this no longer so peaceful winter fairyland.
11
Michael spent the next two days sequestered in his office, where he had a stack of reports waiting from his patrollers. He’d read through more paperwork in the last forty-eight hours than he had in his first few months as inspector. But until his team caught Clowes, he couldn’t be lax about anything.
That morning, Smithers had delivered a breakfast plate to his office. Between different meetings with the sergeants assig
ned to tracking down Clowes and his regular work, he had little time to think, let alone eat a leisurely meal in the dining room.
As he ate his eggs and toast, he sorted the files into three piles: other cases, information on Clowes, and administrative issues. He’d clear off the clerical matters first, for those memorandums only required him to sign his approval. The standard casework could wait until that evening.
An hour passed. He’d completed the first round of meeting notices and budget summaries in record time. The reports detailing Clowes’s whereabouts took more time. Abigail’s wellbeing depended on his thoroughness, so he re-read each report twice and then plotted Clowes’s travels on his map.
He pushed away the completed pile of dispatches and surveyed the remaining paperwork. The clock chimed ten. At half past nine, Sergeant Marcus Hume was supposed to brief him on any progress in the Clowes case. As usual, Hume was late.
If the man weren’t such a damn good investigator, Michael would have dismissed him for his constant tardiness. Hume didn’t have Knight’s analytical skills, but he was highly proficient at reading people.
He frowned. This was not the day for Hume to be late. Not only did this throw his schedule to hell, but it left him time to examine what had happened with Abigail yesterday. Rarely did he encounter a situation where he couldn’t immediately ascertain a course of action. But this—whatever this was with her—completely perplexed him.
The absurdity of his situation didn’t escape him. He was a grown man flummoxed by a pixie no taller than his shoulders. What in God’s name was he supposed to say to Abigail after that kiss? He’d intended to seduce her and go about his merry way. Instead, after just a week in his home, she’d blown his world apart.
Every part of his house now reminded him of her. In the dining room, he remembered breakfasts with her, and four course dinners where she ate with gusto that amused him. In the parlor, he recalled nights spent in quiet contemplation with her. He’d work on paperwork while she read by the fire. And in the library—the blasted library—he could not take in a breath without wondering which book she’d read next, or how he might arrange the furniture to better suit her needs.
