by Erica Monroe
Before I loved you.
He had not looked away from her. His eyes, darkened with desire even in his angst, seared through the last of her will. If a fall from grace meant she kept him in her life, she’d gladly succumb to it.
“It’s because you know me that you shouldn’t submit to this.” The anguish in his voice gave her pause. How low must he believe himself, if she of all people was not worthy of him? “You deserve so much more.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of him hating himself. “Michael, you’ve given me everything. Free run of your house. A library beyond my wildest dreams. Friends, for Mrs. O’Neal and Smithers are true gems.”
He stood up. Took a step toward her, then another, until he was in front of her chair. His hand darted out toward her shoulder, but he did not close the gap between them. “It’s the least I can do.”
“No, the least you could have done was demanded payment. Either in full from my father, or from my virginity. You didn’t do that.” She grabbed hold of his hand, interlocking her fingers in his. “You accepted me, and that is the greatest gift of all.”
His grip closed around hers firmly. As though he’d never let go. As if she only had to say the word and he’d stay forever.
“You gave me no choice.” A smile creased his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You come storming into a room, Abigail. You’ve got a ready retort for any situation. I could stand naked outside with a bloody pineapple on my head, and you’d probably bring out a shaved ice to serve with it.”
She laughed at the image, but then her laughter died out at the sorrow on his face. “If I’m prepared for everything as you say, then I’m prepared for being your mistress.”
“I have no doubt you’d make the finest mistress in all of England,” he said.
“Then what’s stopping you? Is it the money?” She pressed his hand, wishing she could extract from the contact what troubled him. “That’s a mere formality, in place because I’d want Bess to stay here too. I know that’s unconventional—”
He cut her off. “Your sister isn’t my objection.”
“Then it’s me?” She dropped his hand, pushing herself up from the chair. Put as much distance between them as she could. “You don’t want me.”
He let out a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “You know that’s not true.”
“Why did you kiss me?” She whirled around, facing him. “Not just in the snow, but in the library. You touched me, kissed me, where no man has ever touched me. Was it a game to you? To make me feel for you?”
“Christ, Abigail.” He’d never sounded so anguished before. “Everything between us has been real. If what happened in the library didn’t indicate to you how badly I want you, then I don’t know what will.”
“And I want you. Can’t you see that I love you?”
She’d said it. Oh God, she’d said it. She flung her hands up to cover her mouth in hopes she could push those words back in, but it was too late.
The words lingered in the air, soaking up every bit of space between them until there was just this declaration smothering them both.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Her throat tightened, making her sound choked “Please, please forget I ever said anything.”
“I will do no such thing," he declared, holding her gaze steadily. “I won’t forget what you said because I love you too.”
He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.
In the next second, she was in his arms, pressed against his chest, the beat of his heart in her ears. He’d taken her tarnished soul and polished it until it shined new and bright. “I will be the best mistress you’ll ever find; I swear to it.”
He pulled back, turning away from her. “I haven’t agreed to any arrangement.”
She watched him dumbly. “But…you love me, and I love you.”
“It’s never so simple.” His posture became rigid, poised to head off into war, not profess his adoration. “I love you so much it bloody terrifies me. I’m a Strickland. Time and time again, the men in my family have hurt the women they claimed to love. You’ll come to hate me.”
“I could never hate you.” Coming up next to him, she rested her hand on his arm. His tense muscles relaxed under her touch.
He leaned into her hold. They stood in front of the window, staring out at a street that might not hold any potential for them, yet they were unable to look away. “I’m sure my mother never thought she’d hate my father, and she died in the asylum he sent her to.”
She peered up at him, wishing he’d see she believed in him. “What happened to your mother is horrible, but it doesn’t determine your future. If anything, that has made you a better man. You will never do to me what your father did to her.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He clasped her palm tighter, as if their joined hands could anchor him. “The very idea of hurting you makes me want to choke something.”
“You said yourself, I’m horridly irrepressible.” The tiniest smile toyed with her lips, despite the somberness of his words. “If you hurt me, I’ll recover. We are both fallible creatures. I’m sure that I shall not always be a delight to live with.”
“Do you really think I could be better?” He brought his hand up, covering her palm with his. “I want that. I’ve ruined so many things, Abigail, and I’d understand if you don’t trust me—”
“I do trust you.” She cut him off. With each statement, he’d grown more impassioned. “I meant what I said in the library. I trust you. More than I do anyone else.”
He released her hand, going back to the chaise and sitting down. She followed him. Her steps were slow, her rhythm irregular from her knock-knees, but she walked with a purpose. She wouldn’t be ashamed of her disadvantages, not with him, not now. Carefully, she dropped to the ground in front of his chair, assuming the same position he’d taken earlier.
“Let me make you a promise then.” Taking his hands in hers, she rested her elbows on his knees. “I’ll stay by your side. You’ve reminded me that I’m strong enough to wage my own wars, but I’d like you by my side when I’m fighting. I’m ready to be your mistress.”
Squeezing his hands, she released him and rose. She left him sitting in his sterile parlor, hoping that he’d allow his life to clutter with the chaos of their feelings.
15
She loved him.
Michael shouldn’t be overjoyed at this. Love wasn’t practical. Emotions led to heartbreak, and he’d been a bachelor for so long he didn’t know if he’d be able to change. Before Abigail, he’d considered his life complete. He worked cases, he produced statistically definable results, and when he needed to unwind, he knew what bit o’ muslins to call upon for dalliances.
So why did he feel so damn elated? Loving Abigail was a complication he didn’t need. When he’d first seen her in the hospital, he’d been dumbstruck by her. She’d seemed so delicate, his waiflike beauty. Now that he knew her, his initial impression rang false. She didn’t need help from anyone, least of all him.
But he loved her.
Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore that fact any longer. Over the course of ten days, she’d bewitched him, the devilish minx, with her bright smile and her rebellious social philosophies and her sinful curves. She was not perfect—she was incredibly stubborn, and she always thought she was right—and for that, he loved her even more. Around her, he could be himself, flaws and all.
He’d sneaked into Abigail’s room earlier that day, when he knew she was out in the garden with Smithers and slipped twenty pounds into the pocket of the apron she’d worn the day she arrived at his house. It wasn’t as much as he’d wanted to settle on her, but at least it was something to start.
He drummed a jaunty beat against the top of his desk. Earlier that day, Smithers had caught him singing. He hadn’t sung in years! The only positive part was that Smithers had missed his dance with his truncheon.
Michael leaned back against the leather headrest of his chair. Swished the gin
in his glass. Glowered at the dancing flame of the one candle lighting his otherwise dim office. In that golden flame he saw Abigail's flaxen hair, her reddened lips from his kisses, the flush to her cheeks when he’d spread her thighs apart and licked her delicate bud.
This was a definite problem.
She wouldn’t be the first mistress he’d kept. In his early twenties, he’d entertained a succession of women before deciding it was worth neither the effort nor the expense. He preferred the spontaneity of one-night encounters.
Abigail was spontaneous. He remembered her tucked away in the back of his library, Fanny Hill stretched out on her lap. Her fingers down the waistband of her skirt. Her head thrown back as she cried his name…
His cock twitched to life at the memory. How did the very thought of her make him hard? Bloody, bloody hell. At the beginning of last week, he would have readily agreed to the idea of her being his mistress. She was beautiful—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—and through protecting her, he’d assuage his guilt over her torture.
Now, the notion revolted him. He couldn’t fathom his bold, spirited Abigail beholden to him. To anyone. She ought to be an equal participant in whatever relationship she entered.
With her, he could no longer imagine reducing passion down to a business arrangement. She deserved a man who’d do right by her, who’d honor her in both his thoughts and his actions.
She deserved marriage.
Could he give her that? Earlier that morning, he’d drawn up a budget for what it’d be like to have Abigail and her sister live with him. From a fiscal standpoint, he could afford it. But should he take Abigail as his wife? He knew the answer to that without hesitation. No.
He was not a man who remained steadfast. The thought of growing old together and raising a brood of children usually was enough to make his blood curdle. He enjoyed his unattached life and it suited him well, regardless of whatever his servants claimed.
But numbers didn’t lie—people did. And he was no exception.
The numbers said he ought to make Abigail his wife, that it was the best scenario for all involved. But could he doom Abigail to a life of unhappiness when their relationship no longer fulfilled her?
As he drummed his fingers against the table, he imagined what waking up every morning next to Abigail would be like. He didn’t recoil. He wanted to run, yes, but not way from her—to her bedroom.
Fear gripped his throat and wet his palms, choking him in a way none of the dangers he’d faced as a policeman ever had.
He loved her, but his feelings were inconsequential. For no matter how she felt toward him currently—her admission of love yesterday constantly replayed in his mind and yet he still couldn’t believe the words—he couldn’t believe that it’d last. She might become homesick for Whitechapel, or after being accustomed to increased privilege, she’d start to find life as dissatisfying as Frances did. Or else he would, and he’d make her hate him.
He’d never seen a marriage that lasted. Even Knight’s great love with Poppy would lead to disaster. He knew this with the unyielding certainty he used to have in his own skills as a foot patroller. There, he’d learned to trust his instincts. In his role as Inspector, he couldn’t rely on simply presentiment—he needed facts and indisputable evidence too. Too many people’s lives depended on him.
His men had sent word that they intended to raid Madame Massle’s tonight. With any luck, by morning they’d capture Clowes before he left the country.
Michael frowned into his glass. He couldn’t shake the niggling doubt. Something didn’t feel right about this operation. Sightings of Clowes had been confirmed by multiple witnesses in the West End, and Jared hadn’t come back with anything new.
He missed consulting with Knight, back when his friend’s success didn’t equate to his failure. Grabbing a blank piece of paper, he drew out a model in the right corner of the map. Given the movements of his henchmen and the last known location, as well as the data from previous cases, he could triangulate Clowes’s basic location. He plotted each point on the map, as he’d done multiple times in the last week. The repetition soothed his mind.
When they’d first convicted Clowes, Michael had tried a buffer formula on his factory crimes, and the outcome had been sound. Clowes’s house was within walking distance yet gave him enough distance that the police wouldn’t have thought of him without the testimony of the Knights.
He frowned at the map. A man like Clowes would have established a bigger buffer, an area where he wouldn’t commit crimes because he’d fear leading the police straight to him. All the points on the map from recent events were too close to Madame Massle’s.
It didn’t make sense. He made a note on the paper to contact Hume tomorrow.
Pushing back his chair, Michael ambled toward the door, stopping mid-way to grab the decanter of gin. No point in taking the glass with him. He intended to drink himself into an oblivion that didn't consist of Clowes’s blasted escape tactics, or Abigail’s tempting mouth.
He blew out the candle and proceeded down the hall, the gin sloshing in time to his steps. Gin would fix everything, at least for the night. In the morning, hopefully he’d know just what to say to Abigail. A man could hope, couldn't he?
Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn't register the noise. A high-pitched keening sound, echoing from one of the bedrooms. Quickly, he counted the doors. Third door on the left, the blue room—oh, fuck.
Abigail. No, not Abigail, anyone but Abigail...
He flung the decanter onto the ground. His hand flew to the small pistol holstered at his waist, cocking the weapon in seconds. He stood with his feet a comfortable distance apart; positioning the three lower fingers of his right hand on the pistol grip, thumb resting on the back of the gun. As he crept down the hall, his mind spun through various scenarios at rapid-fire pace.
If it were Clowes, then the bastard had subdued his two patrollers outside. Clowes must be armed because there was no way Smithers would have conceded without a fight. How had Clowes figured out what room Abigail was in? Process of elimination, most likely.
His heart pounded in his ears, while his breath came out in erratic puffs. The pistol remained steady, the weight in his hand reassuring. He knew the gun, knew the accuracy.
The cry came again, louder this time, followed by a woman's voice. “No, no!”
To hell with sneaking up on Clowes. Speed was his best advantage. He burst forward, boots slamming onto the Oriental rug, running faster than he ever had as a patroller. Those chases had been about the job. This was about pursuing the villain who'd harmed Abigail.
He slid his index finger onto the trigger. With his other hand, he flung the door open, ready to shoot if the situation should require it.
There was no one in the room.
No one but Abigail.
He'd anticipated his eyes adjusting to the darkness of her room, but the fire in the hearth had not burnt out yet. The embers gave off a glow that cast across the room, highlighting her bed. He approached, finger still on the trigger, fearing the danger that hid in the shadows.
A part of him couldn't believe that she was unscathed and truly alone in this room.
Her cheeks streaked with tear marks, and the sheets twisted about her, showed she'd spent a large part of the night tossing and turning. Had she been dreaming when she’d cried? God, he hoped it was something as simple as that.
She stirred in the bed, her eyes opening slowly. “Michael?” She recognized him, her gaze on his face then dropping down, taking in the pistol in his hands. Her eyes widened. “Why are you here?”
“Checking.” He stalked past the bed to the drapery and the bay windows. He drew each drape back, verifying that no one hid behind them. He then tackled the wardrobe, pushing the dresses aside.
“What in God's name are you doing?” She demanded, braver as drowsiness fled.
Satisfied that no one had entered the room unknown, he uncocked the gun and set it on the table. Spinning on
his heel, he nodded stiffly. “It seems you had a nightmare.”
She blinked, shaking her head as if that could clear out the cobwebs in her mind. “Yes, I suppose that's true,” she murmured. “But that doesn't explain why you burst in here like wild dogs bit at your heels.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other sheepishly. With her severe gaze on the pistol, he felt silly—no matter how real the peril could have been. “You were crying. I thought you might be in danger.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “I'm sorry. I'd hoped the nightmares were gone.”
Advancing toward her, he gently sat on the edge of the bed. He should leave. Being with her created more unneeded obstacles. He couldn't look at her silhouetted in the firelight without remembering how her skin had slid so smoothly against his or the lush sashay of her lips upon his own.
“I'm fine now,” she said, lifting her chin in a valiant—but ultimately fruitless—attempt at convincing him. “You can go back to bed. I'm sorry I interrupted your night.”
A second apology in as many minutes. Where was the girl who'd declared so glibly that she was a worthy opponent to him? He compressed his lips, deliberating.
She'd been raised to be dutiful, his Abigail, to ignore her own wants and desires for the good of her family. He remembered how she'd appeared standing nude at the door to this very room, although this time he recalled it with an air of clinical detachment. He suspected she'd once been buxom in the areas where she was now too thin, too pinched from months of poor nutrition. He followed the tracts of spilled tears upon her cheeks and felt his failures anew.
He still wasn’t certain he could be the man she needed, but at least he could grant her space to be honest. She ought to have someone caring for her as she did everyone else.
“I'm not going anywhere.” The words tasted strange upon his tongue, a promise he had not intended to make.
But that was the trouble with her. Everything with Abigail became a promise in its own right, a hint at something more.
