by Erica Monroe
He hadn’t cared about her since they were children, when he’d been naive enough to believe they could have a bond simply because of their blood tie. But after the years of her caring only about how she appeared in society—and ignoring him unless he served her greater purpose—he couldn’t bring himself to be hurt by her again.
Dropping her hurt façade, Frances faced him with the stage presence of a grand actress about to deliver her best line. “I had to find out about your activities with this…” Her nose turned up, but at his glare, she withheld the insult she’d probably been about to deliver. “This girl from Hume.”
“Hume?” Michael slapped his serviette onto his plate and stood up. “You’ve been talking to my sergeant? How the hell did you even meet Hume?”
Frances’s spindly fingers toyed with the red-corded balls that adorned her black redingote. “Papa was in the Watch with him.”
“You hated Father’s job.” He narrowed his eyes. Somehow, the urge to throttle Frances lessened when he could only see her part of her face. “When I joined the Met, you told me I was wasting my life. You called my cohorts ‘cod-headed meat packers.’”
“I did no such thing,” Frances protested, yet there was no longer spring in her righteous indignation. She’d taken too long to respond. She looked away for a split second, giving him the advantage.
Frances never conceded a fight she knew she could win. She was happiest when she could draw blood.
She moved back from the table. With forced nonchalance, she patted her brunette curls, done up so neatly underneath her fashionable black hat.
An idea formed in his mind, drawn from the tremor in her voice and the flush to her cheeks.
Michael was a man of probabilities. Frances hated her husband. Hume was about her age, and he wouldn’t be looking for a long-term relationship. He’d be the perfect man for a fling—discreet and cynical enough that he wouldn’t care if she were married.
Damnation. He’d thought he couldn’t dislike Hume any more than he already did but playing cicisbeo to his sister was a whole new level of low.
“Frances.” The crispness to his tone snapped her attention back to him. “Exactly how personal is your relationship with Sergeant Hume?”
“How dare you ask me that?” Frances’s voice, usually so full of vitriol, had become brittle.
Maybe he’d been wrong; maybe there was more to this affair. Maybe Frances actually had feelings for Hume.
He took a step toward her. Could he forgive her for all her previous criticisms of his life? Tell her he understood her actions, even if they cast a societal stain upon their family? He ought to do something. Maybe trapped behind walls of steel was a sister he could come to love.
He hazarded a look toward Abigail. She nodded, encouraging him to go to the sister she knew he loathed. Maybe this would start a new era for them.
The moment severed. Before he could get to her, Frances rounded the breakfast table, her parasol slapping against her leg. She stood rod straight in an attempt to force imperiousness into her reedy frame.
All he saw was frigidity, in the tilt of her chin, the cold cut to her eyes and the twist of her rouged lips into a cruel sneer. He braced himself for a verbal assault.
“How dare you ask me those questions,” she repeated, “in front of your whore?”
A deadening quiet descended upon the room; sliced his throat with a razor, leaving him dripping, bleeding, and defenseless. Until this moment, he hadn’t fully comprehended what it meant to be a harlot. He’d thought of the money Abigail could earn, and the lifestyle she’d have if she were popular.
None of that mattered if she didn’t have her integrity.
“That’s enough,” he roared. Crossing to stand by Abigail’s chair in a visual show of support, he held Frances’s spiteful glare. “You will apologize to Miss Vautille, or you will leave my house, do you understand?”
“It’s fine,” Abigail protested quietly, pushing back her chair. “I should be the one to leave. Lady Elliot can speak to you in private then.”
“See, your kept bird understands her place.” Preening, Frances pulled out the head chair that Michael had vacated and settled in it. She waved toward the door, expecting Abigail to exit.
He hated to see Abigail without her fire. This couldn’t continue. “No. It’s not fine, and Lady Elliot should damn well know how to conduct herself better.” He strode toward the door, opening it. “Out. Now.”
“Well, I never,” she huffed, but something in his demeanor must have convinced her he meant business. She stalked out, halting in the doorway.
Fixing her lethal glare on Abigail, her sapphire eyes darkened with malice. “You think he’s going to make this a mésalliance, trollop? You’re as common as a barber’s chair. He’ll use you and toss you back to the gutter he found you in as soon as he sees fit. And he will see fit. They always do.”
14
“She’s right.” Abigail sat primly on the settee in the parlor, where Michael had insisted on following her when she’d fled the dining room. “You shouldn’t have dismissed your sister. She didn’t say anything I won’t hear many more times in the future.”
Lady Elliot had only pointed out the obvious: she should not keep pretending her relationship with Michael was anything but a strumpet and her whoremonger.
Abigail straightened out the folds of her skirt so that it hid her ankles from view. She needn’t have bothered. He’d already seen her with her skirts hiked up around her waist and her pantalettes clean off, her skin bare and exposed to his greedy eyes.
He followed her motion closely. Since Lady Elliot had departed, he hadn’t left her side, no matter how much she’d assured him she was fine. His compassion affected her, sinking into the depths of her being.
His sharp voice echoed in her ears. “Frances isn’t right.”
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to linger in this make-believe world forever, passing as his. If she couldn’t be with him as his affianced, she’d accept the illusion of being his.
After all, once she left here, her life would become one great deception.
“On one hand, I can recall the number of times Frances has been right in her thirty-two years.” He held up three fingers. “The first time was when she predicted our father would never approve of me.” Down went his ring finger, leaving his middle and index still upright. “The second time was when she said Mama would never be sane again.”
“Michael—” Abigail tried to stop him. He’d already done so much for her. He needn’t dredge up old wounds for her benefit.
He dropped his middle finger too, ignoring her attempt. “And the third was when she said I don’t write to her anymore. Frances is many things—vain, prideful, bitter—but insightful is not one of them.”
Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. When she could not see him, it was easier to refute him. “As much as I appreciate your support, you can’t deny that she sees things the way the rest of the world will. When I leave here, my reputation is ruined for sure. Instead of people suspecting I’m a whore, they’ll have definitive evidence in Cruikshank’s betting book.”
She opened her eyes. He was by her side in an instant, kneeling beside her chair so that he could take her hands in his. She’d remember this when she was in the arms of another man. She’d pretend it was Michael she laid with.
“It’s a bloody cruel world out there,” he whispered. “And if I could, I’d fight every single one of those blackguards who dared besmirch your name.”
“It’s a lovely thought.” She allowed a small smile to curl her lips, for his thoughts were always lovely. What he lacked in follow-through, he made up in earnestness. “But what good is a reputation? It can’t stock our larder or put a roof over my sister’s head.”
“I can’t claim to understand the challenges you face,” he admitted. “If my old mates saw you, I’d be deaf from their shouts of approval at my conquest.”
“I highly doubt that,” s
he replied deprecatingly.
His lopsided grin tugged at her heart. “You have no idea how stunning you are, do you?”
When he’d told her before that she was beautiful, it’d been with a matter-of-factness born from years of dissolution. It hadn’t mattered then.
But now he’d glimpsed into her mind. Her soul. For a second, she allowed herself to think that she was gorgeous—all of her. He’d never seen her scars, but maybe he wouldn’t judge her. Maybe he’d understand.
“I have been thinking.” His thumb stroked hers, the gentle glide soothing her worries more than any physical connection ever had.
“I thought I smelled smoke,” she teased, forcing a light tone, though a quick stab of pain cut through her. Their time in the snow felt like years ago, not days.
“Cheeky chit.” He chuckled. “But I think you will like my plan.”
He released her hands, standing up.
“Mind you, I haven’t worked out all the details, but I doubt there will be any problems.” As he spoke, he paced back and forth, weaving a steady path until she thought the carpet would bear tread marks. “I have made a significant amount from the gaming tables, and Father’s death left me with a decent sum.”
“What are you talking about?” She held up a hand to stop him, for his constant back-and-forth made her dizzy. “Start from the beginning. You said you had a plan. A plan for what, precisely?”
He drew up beside her, flopping into the chair to the right of the chaise. “For you.”
“A plan for me?”
He leaned forward and without thought, she did too. A shiver spun down her spine. She’d go along with anything he proposed when he looked at her like that, as if she was the only woman who mattered.
God, how she wanted to matter. She’d been forgotten for ages, pushed aside after the incident. She wanted to be seen, to be important. But most of all, she wanted him.
“I told you that I’d make things right for you,” he said. “Once Clowes is found, I’m going to meet with my account manager and make a withdrawal. I want you and your sister to be solvent, Abigail. I don’t want you to be—to have to do this anymore.”
She recoiled into the far edge of her chair. “You want me to accept your charity.”
“No, I want you to accept my help.” He crossed his arms over his chest, drawing her attention to the way his simple linen shirt strained over his muscles. He was strong and able-bodied, while she was reduced to accepting donations.
She met his gaze, her head held high. “Helping was paying my father’s debt. You were to receive something in return.”
He frowned. “It isn’t a sign of failure to accept my assistance. Everyone has hard times—the trick is how you cope with that adversity. Or do you actually want to have to sell yourself to the highest bidder?”
Silence squeezed her throat. She’d dealt with adversity. Lord, she’d dealt with it, and she’d always come out on top, until six months ago. She looked down at her fingers, clad in the black satin gloves he’d provided, swirls of jet that in the right light shined full of hope and promises.
The light was not right today. Nothing was right when he pitied her. She’d sworn that when she had to sell herself, she’d do it with pride. She’d know that she contributed to her family, and she would earn her keep. If she accepted his money, she’d be free from worry until the money ran out, but she wouldn’t have her pride.
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Hurt warped his face. “Why? Because I’m more affluent than you?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t lie to him. Their lives had been so markedly different that it was as if a chasm stood between them, forcing them to shout at each other from opposing sides.
He rubbed the back of his neck in a circular motion, the same rhythm he’d used feather-light against her most intimate parts, stroking her until she crested. “I cannot change how I’ve been raised.”
“I wouldn’t want you to.” She traced a circle upon her thigh, her fingers mimicking his motions. “You were given a chance at greatness.”
“And I squandered every opportunity,” he spat. “The Met promoted me because they wanted another Strickland in office. I’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than four nights. I’m nothing but a depraved scoundrel.”
“That’s not what I see when I look at you.” She drank him in, noting the lines of his face as though she was meeting him for the first time. Strong jaw, curved but not overly pointed. Broad forehead, currently wrinkled with doubt.
A man she could love.
A man she already loved.
“When I look at you, I see your compassion.” Her gaze traveled from his face down to his robust shoulders, his well-built chest, and his damnably good-intentioned but misguided heart. “I see a man who is scared of how people will perceive him. So, he hides behind a roguish veneer, pretending that if he doesn’t care for anyone, he’ll never be hurt.”
“It worked before,” he noted.
Her praise had calmed him. He was the type of man who needed accolades. She understood that now. It did not make him less, any less than her desire for independence did.
“It worked until I met you.” That vow fled from his lips, so swift she almost missed it. “I care about you, Abigail. If that makes me guilty of giving you charity in your eyes, then so be it. I won’t stop caring for you.”
His words were as soothing as his fond caresses, leveling away some of the ache. While his intentions did not completely negate the effect, he had not meant to wound her.
He cared about her. Someday, could he love her? Maybe her hopes were not so fruitless after all. But she didn’t know if she could survive it if he was fickle, and he forgot her like the rest of society. What if her heart broke into so many pieces, she couldn’t repair it? Or what if, instead of pain, there was only happiness?
The voice from the hospital echoed in her mind. You’re a fighter. She’d doubted those words so many times in these last six months. Yet during these nine days in his house, where no one had known her before the incident, she had become self-assured.
“You want to ‘save’ me, Michael, but I don’t need to be saved.” As her voice rang out clearly, she realized she was telling the truth: she was no one’s victim.
He propped his elbows on his knees, chin between his outstretched palms. “The money I’d give you would make it so you could find a better home for you and Bess.”
Didn’t he know she wanted him, not his money? His townhouse had been a wonderful respite, but if she couldn’t have him, she’d rather stay in the rookeries. At least she’d drown her sorrows in the same haunts she’d frequented all her life.
“A home being more costly doesn’t make it a better home. Violence happens everywhere.” She imagined her flat, the brick spotted with her own blood. Before the incident, that house had felt like the most unassailable place in London. “Growing up, I felt more protected in a neighborhood where people have the threat of accountability. Even Clowes served some time in prison.”
“We’re going to get him, Abigail. I swear to you with all I have, I’m going to catch that bastard.” The urgency behind his words built up her assurance, made her feel sheltered.
“I have every belief you’ll achieve that goal.” She had to believe he would. The prospect of Clowes finding her again was too frightening.
His voice was softer than normal. “Your confidence in me matters.”
She wanted to matter.
“Some of the people in Whitechapel are good, and some are very, very bad.” She tugged on her glove, readjusting it, the proof of their vileness carved into her skin. “But before I came here, it was the only place I’d ever known.”
And now your house has become my second home. Do you wish I could stay as much as I do?
He smiled, a gentler smile than she’d grown accustomed to, one tinged with pride for her, and maybe even approbation of her logic. “Then I won’t worry so much for you. But I still wi
sh you were close by.”
“I’ll be only a hack ride away.” Even she didn’t buy her faux optimism.
Their gazes locked. The moment transformed. The tenderness became more charged, almost palpable. She dared not move, talk, or even breathe, for fear this precious bond between them would shatter.
His words became a confession of closely held secrets. “I’d rather have you in Cheapside.”
“And I’d rather be here with you,” she murmured.
A notion percolated in the back of her mind. Perhaps it was mad. If he didn’t accept her bid, then she’d truly have no other option but the brothels. But when he smiled at her like that, she couldn’t help but risk it all in hopes the return would be greater. She now understood the lure of gaming.
“There might be another way you could help me,” she began, uncertainly at first, then the words all in a rush. “You could make me your mistress.”
His jaw dropped.
She continued on, her stomach tumbling. “You’d take the money you intended to give me and use it toward my upkeep, and my sister’s, here. It wouldn’t be charity because I’d be doing something to earn it.”
“By ‘doing something,’ you mean fucking me.”
“That’s not quite the terminology I’d use, but yes.”
“That’s what you want?” He blinked at her, jaw still slack. “To be a prostitute after all? Despite everything you’ve told me?”
“I’d be your mistress,” she clarified. “You said you’d school me if I wanted, and I accept your proposition. Either I work in a brothel or a protector hires me exclusively. Why shouldn’t it be you, Michael?”
“But you’d still be a courtesan,” he insisted. “You said you were only going to do that for money, and if I can give you the money outright, you’ve got no need to sell yourself.”
She clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting. “That was before I knew you.”
