by Erica Monroe
16
Michael observed her with the same levelness he used in interrogations. A mask to hide the frantic beating of his heart, the desperate desire to be by her side until he was certain she was fine. “This is a regular occurrence, the nightmares?”
She rearranged the sheet up around her, hiding her nightdress from his view. He swallowed a sigh of relief, for it was one less enticing reminder of when he’d dipped his head between her legs and tasted her cunny.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Since the incident.” She raised a gloved hand to her face, sweeping a stray golden curl from her face.
She wore the gloves to sleep.
He was struck by how deep her scars ran; in order to cope she couldn’t look at her injuries, even when no one else was around to see her. The decanter of gin outside in the hall was evidence enough of how he'd learned to cope with his own demons over the years.
“Tell me about the dreams,” he urged, maintaining the distance between them, even though he ached to pull her into his arms and soothe away her hurt.
Raising her gaze to his face, she assessed him for a second, the slightest wobble to her lower lip the only indication that she was not in complete control.
“I'm back in the factory. Clowes is there; that part never changes. There are times when Effie Larker is with him, and she's shrieking at him to finish the job, to make it neat and pretty because he's already ruined one of the finest silks with the bucket of urine he poured upon me.”
His stomach sloshed. He'd tried to forget that detail. What had happened to her was inhumane and sick.
Wounds that wretched needed stripping away in the same darkness that created them. So tonight, he’d stay by her side until she quieted, and he’d listen to her confession.
She needn't be scared anymore.
“You know we will find him,” he vowed, to her as much as much as himself. “My men are going tonight.”
She sagged back against the bed pillows, letting out a sigh of something that sounded almost like relief. As if she believed him.
Can’t you see that I love you? She’d said.
He did not deserve her love, yet she’d given it to him freely.
“And when we do find him, I will personally make damned sure he pays for what he did to you.” He wished it were Clowes's throat that he wrung between his hands, not her counterpane. “Clowes will know what it's like to be tormented by someone with the power to make him wish for death. I'll torture him until he begs for mercy, and when he asks for mercy, I'll kick him in the stones.”
A small smile curved the edges of her lips. “I should like very much to see that.”
She loosened her grip on the sheet, and his eyes tracked the slow descent of the fabric. Her nightrail was white, innocent as she was, but flimsy where she was flinty. He should divert his attention elsewhere.
But he wouldn't look away—couldn't look away.
He needed her to know that he saw her, every part of her, and he didn’t want to run. Her strengths and faults combined to make this total picture. He loved her with every bone in his body, even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though he knew it’d all turn to rot. He loved her and he’d die to protect her.
So, he reached for her, gripping her smaller hand in his rough larger palm. The cool slide of silk against his skin was not as enticing as it had once been, for it hid who she was, and he wanted no illusions between them. He held her gaze, her cerulean eyes reminding him of turbulent waters on jagged rocks. Every problem that arose, she’d beaten down with her strength of will.
“Sometimes I dream Poppy’s there too,” Abigail whispered. She stared down at their merged hands, her irregular breathing steadying. “Instead of Clowes being the one to shove my hand in the loom, it’s her. She helps him torture me. And you know what? She has this gruesome smile on her face, the same one she had when she found those damned papers in Larker’s office. And I know she’d do it all again, if given the choice.”
“You can’t truly believe that.” He thought of Knight’s wife, her impassioned face almost as red as her hair from defending Abigail’s honor. The two women had been close, but he didn’t think he’d entirely grasped how much Poppy’s friendship had meant to Abigail until now.
Abigail sneered. She didn’t pull her hand from his, but she settled back against the pillows, farther away from him.
“I believe it because it is the truth.” Her tone dared him to contradict her. “Why should Poppy have regrets? She got everything she wanted out of the deal.”
He squeezed Abigail’s hand, wishing he could will away her hatred with his touch. “You know she regrets you being hurt. But Poppy didn’t torment you, Clowes did.”
“So, you side with them.” She slumped on the bed, defeat running through her. “But you said you loved me.”
She tried to tug her hand from his, but he held firm.
“I do love you,” he confessed, for though he’d said it before, it had been in the heat of the moment. Now in the quiet of her bedroom, it felt as though he was revealing a truth long kept secret. “And it’s because I love you that I can’t allow you to continue down this path. You think you’re hurting the people who did this to you, but you’re only hurting yourself.”
She squirmed on the bed, directing hellfire glares at him. “I don’t want to talk about this any longer.”
He pulled her to him, his arms surrounding her. She’d cling to the darkness, his wildcat, but eventually this wrath would eat her alive. “Abigail, please.” His voice was as low as the spark of flames in the hearth. “Do you know what I did after my father died?”
She stiffened against his hold. “No.”
“I threw myself into work,” he explained. “Every case I got, I finished in half the normal time because I refused to sleep more than two hours a night. I existed upon gin, boiled potatoes, and overdone mutton because that was all the coster in front of the station house had.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I’ve had worse.”
He nodded, recalling how she’d ravenously fallen upon her dinner that first night. “It wasn’t until two months after the funeral that Knight forced me to take a night off. We went to one of my sister’s god-awful soirees. The music was akin to the wails of a dying cat and the food was only a hair better than gutter rubbish, but I realized something.”
“That the rich are never satisfied?” She suggested acerbically.
“Bloody woman, can’t you tell I’m trying to discuss my feelings with you here?” He grouched, releasing his ironclad grip on her. “I thought women were supposed to like displays of emotion. Hell of a lot of good it does me with you.”
Soon she sat beside him, her legs flung over the side of the bed, feet dangling in the air. “I’m sorry. Please, tell me what you realized. I’ll listen this time.”
He let out a loud harrumph. Just this once, he’d like her to react the way normal women did. “Not that it will have the grand dramatic effect I planned originally, but I learned that if I didn’t deal with my grief I was going to combust.”
“I’m not grieving,” she objected. “And that makes a fourth time Frances was right, since the soiree helped you.”
He peered at her skeptically. “Fine. Four times, though I believe this was really Knight’s achievement, since he snatched up the invitation and demanded we attend.”
She arched a brow at him. “Mere semantics.”
“But it doesn’t change the fact that you, my dear lass, are most certainly grieving,” he declared. “I haven’t seen such blatant sorrow since the king died.”
“King George was a bounder,” she scoffed. “Why anyone mourned his passing is beyond me.”
“You little libertine.” He wanted to laugh and agree with her pronunciation, because the fourth King George had indeed been a bounder. But his position as an inspector sobered him. “Be careful who you express such opinions to, or you’re liable to be hauled into gaol as a traitor.”
She flashed a wi
cked smile at him, piercing his heart. “Ah, but Michael, aren’t I safe with you? You’ll never tell anyone what I say.”
Safe.
“Yes, you’re safe.” With everything he had in him, he’d make sure that was true. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Not even me.
Scooting closer to him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. “I know.”
He rested his chin atop her head, relishing the closeness of her. “I think you need to forgive Poppy and Knight for what they did. Place the blame where it lies and nowhere else.”
She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her palm. “They betrayed me.”
Hadn’t he, in a sense, betrayed her too? By refusing to look into the Larkers when Knight had come to him? He tried to remember what he’d told her about his part in the inquiry, but the details were hazy.
Better that he not make a full breast of it now. She needed someone to believe in and damn it all, he’d be that person. Abigail had been battered and bruised so many times, but that was the past. He was determined the future would be much brighter for her.
“So you say they did.” He draped an arm around her shoulder. “When I told them about you coming here, Poppy almost jumped down my throat. She begged to see you. She was so bloody worried about our wager.”
With good reason.
He squeezed Abigail’s shoulder and prayed he wouldn’t end up doing more damage to her. “Poppy cares about you and so does Knight. You can continue to push them away, hurting not only them but also yourself. Or you can accept their help.”
Disguising her sniffle with a well-placed cough, Abigail leaned into his touch. “I don’t need anyone’s aid.”
“You do and you should bloody well take it,” he informed her. “There’s no shame in you asking for help. You’ve been dealt a bad draw, and you need some new cards to get back your winning streak.”
“It would all come back to a hand of cards,” she noted with an ironic smile. “I hope you realize this applies to you as well.”
He blinked. “What does?”
She linked her hand in his, toying with his thumb. “Accepting help. You’re hurting over your father’s death. If you want to talk about it...”
He’d rather be punched in the eye than examine all the reasons he hated the Old Bastard, and he wouldn’t have to look far for somebody willing to do just that to him.
“I’m here for the next few days, at least,” she murmured.
God, he longed for her to be in his house—in his life—for longer than just four more days. But could he make this commitment? Trepidation bubbled in his gut, the fear not just that he’d fail himself, but that he’d fail her.
“I’ll be fine, love. Few sparring sessions at the gymnasium will fix me right up. You needn’t worry about me.” He released her hand, rising from the bed. He let his eyes travel down her insubstantial nightrail one last time, the mere sight of her enough to heat his blood. “I ought to be going. Ladies must get their beauty sleep, after all.”
She stopped him with a hand on his hip, her delicate touch sizzling through the band of his trousers. “Do you think you might stay the night with me? It is a large bed. There is plenty of room for us both.”
His body went rock hard at the suggestion. As her gaze fell to his growing erection, obvious even in the firelight, her round cheeks pinked.
It was nearly enough to undo him. That flush, so innocent, so unworldly. She knew little about pleasure. Only what he’d taught her. He was many things: scoundrel, rogue, hedonist. But he’d be more for her. He’d honor her needs.
“That is, to sleep,” she hazarded, the breathiness of her voice creating an entirely different notion. “I’m not saying that you have to give me an answer about my plan now.”
For one minute, then another, they stared at each other. Neither dared speak. He waited for her to retract the proposition, to realize her foolishness not only in giving herself to him but in saying, she loved him. But she didn’t.
She drew in an unsteady breath, her saucer eyes fixated upon him. He let his eyes roam down her heart-shaped face, from her pert nose to the sharp angularity of her chin, as strong as she was. She’d slept so violently that her blond curls were finally, finally unrestrained. Waves of champagne cascaded down her shoulders, ending just above her breasts.
As if he needed a reminder—as if her naked body wasn’t seared into his mind—her white nightrail left little to the imagination. He simultaneously thanked and cursed the makers of modern millinery. God’s balls, he could see the darkened skin of her areola, her nipples firm and erect under his scalding gaze.
Slowly—so slowly, he wasn’t certain his eyes could be trusted at first—she licked her lips, pink tongue dipping out to caress the upper edge. Oh, God. God and Heaven and Hell and devils because devils had to be involved. He couldn’t staunch the groan that ripped through his chest. His breeches were so tight against him from that one damn seductive movement.
He knew it then: resistance when it came to Abigail Vautille would always prove futile. The need to touch her was deep in his bones. He’d fought valiantly to allow her a more suitable man than him, but in the end, she was his.
“I’ll stay,” he ventured. “But you and I both know there won’t be any sleeping.”
17
Stay the night with me.
She'd lost her mind. Everything about this house struck her with madness: the sheer opulence of bourgeoisie existence, the servants that were neither French Huguenots nor London-bred, the library with its obscene collection of pornographic pictures. Michael was everywhere. Even when he was not with her, this house was his. These things were his. This style of living was his.
She was his.
And therein lay the crux of her madness. Technically, if she were to be specific, the crux sat on the bed beside her. Silently Michael observed her, sans his coat and neckcloth, his powder-blue waistcoat unbuttoned. The rolled-up sleeves of his white linen shirt revealed his way-too-muscular forearms.
He was a bronzed god in the low light of the fire, while she was a monster.
The idea that he’d want her seemed unbelievable. But he’d said he loved her, and she knew he would not lie about something as important as that. In fact, she couldn’t think of a time when he had lied to her.
Always, he’d treated her with blunt forthrightness she valued far more than the kid gloves everyone else wanted to use around her since the incident. His honesty was the most important thing to her.
To him, she was not broken beyond repair. There was still hope for her.
“Think hard about what you’re asking,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face.
He saw her. Not the beast she’d come to believe she was, but a girl who was beautiful, independent, and smart. He saw the girl she’d been before. Perhaps even a better version, for she’d triumphed over adversity and emerged like a phoenix.
“I have thought about it,” she told him. “Did you think I’d ask to be your mistress if I didn’t want this?”
“It is possible you might have considered me the lesser of two evils.” A flash of doubt, sneaking past his cocksure exterior, before he promptly snuffed it out with his typical smirk. “I suppose when compared to life on the streets, I am quite desirable.”
“It is indeed possible,” she agreed, reaching for his hand and tugging him closer to her. “But unlikely.”
“I’ll still look out for you, you know that. I meant what I said about settling a sum on you and your sister.” He didn’t bridge the gap between them. “You don’t have to do this to win my support.”
“For a reputed rogue, you’re damnably hard to seduce.” She rolled her shoulders, letting her head fall back, so that her breasts lifted higher in the thin nightrail. The motion had the desired effect: his eyes darkened, his focus centering entirely on her bosom.
He gulped, and she knew it was not for lack of want that he’d been unsure, but rather out of respect for her.
“Abigail—” He swallowed, his hand fisting around the counterpane. “I’m trying to save you from a foolish decision. Once you give away your virginity, you can’t get it back.”
“I am aware of that, yes,” she replied acerbically. “Did you mean it when you told me you loved me?”
“You know I did.” He sounded pained that she’d question his affections. “I love you.”
No matter how many times he said it, she’d never grow tired of hearing it. “Then why would I ever want anyone but you?”
He released the counterpane. Grabbing for her hand instead, his fingers closed over hers, clutching her so tightly that she dared to think he might never let go. This could be permanent between them. Maybe her fate wasn’t sealed in the first turn of the bar onto the next flat, perforated punch card. She could be a woman of bold decision and even bolder desire. A woman who fought for what she wanted.
And what she wanted was him. She’d wanted him since the moment he defended her to a table of unruly men at Cruikshank’s, when he’d claimed her as his.
“Are you sure?” His voice didn’t reach above a whisper. The words hung in the air between them, the only sound in the room.
The change in him struck her. Gone was the scoundrel who smiled and flirted at the drop of a hat. He awaited her response with bated breath, his gaze hot with desire but his movements surprisingly shy. She squeezed her fingers against his reassuringly.
She nodded. “I’m surer than I’ve ever been in my life.”
With his hand still in hers, he shifted on the bed, his thigh rubbing against hers as he scooted closer. He cupped his hand underneath her jaw, lightly bringing her chin up so that her eyes met his. His lips brushed hers in the gentlest of kisses—so soft, her heart sang.
There’d been an edge to their other kisses, a war played with their lips on opposing sides. But this was real, raw, and perfect because she knew his true feelings.
She kissed him back, certain of her own prowess. Kissing him was a lexicon in which she was now proficient.
