Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  Two years.

  Not since she’d met Caleb.

  He nodded, watching her. “Nor have I.”

  “No women in Boston, on their widows’ walks, awaiting your return?”

  “Nary a one. And you . . . no men on the rooftops of Covent Garden, keeping watch?”

  “Nary a one. And no women, neither.” She paused, then confessed, “Though, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you were there . . . watching over me.”

  He reached for her, pulling her down and pressing his lips to hers. “I’m watching over you tonight.”

  What if it wasn’t enough?

  No. She pushed the thought aside. There wasn’t time for it. Not now, not when he was big and warm and hard beneath her. Not with the broad head of his cock parting her folds, notching against her. Not while she was sighing her pleasure, lifting herself up until he was there, at her entrance, pressing into her, slowly, barely moving, making her wild.

  Not with his hands on her hips, guiding her as she sank down on him, holding her still for tiny, impossible moments as she stretched to welcome him, making it possible to memorize every inch of him as he filled her, until they were pressed together, sealed to each other, and she wrapped herself around him and gave herself up to the pleasure of him. Of them.

  Like nothing she’d ever felt before.

  She sighed his name at his ear, the word coming on a ragged breath. “I’ve never . . .”

  “Neither have I,” he replied, the words sounding devastated. “It’s fucking paradise. You’re fucking heaven.”

  She moved, slowly, up and then down, and they groaned together. “Are you sure it is not you, who is fucking heaven?”

  He laughed, the movement trembling through them. “I am, indeed, fucking heaven.”

  This wonderful man, finally, finally playing with her.

  And then playtime was over, and he was moving, thrusting into her, hot and perfect, and she was filled with something like pleasure and something else, something that, if she lingered on it, would feel like fear.

  Because she was certain, in that moment, that she would never experience anything like this again.

  But she couldn’t linger on that emotion, because he began to move her, to move himself, slow and smooth, like he’d been made to hold her and she’d been made to hold him, and they’d been made for this . . . which of course they had. It was the only explanation for how they fit together, and how they moved together, and how they loved each other.

  And it felt like love then, as he moved deep within her, with slow, languid thrusts, short and perfect, layering pleasure inside her over and over, until she was panting against him and begging him for . . . she didn’t know what.

  He did, though. Because he was Caleb, and of course he did, moving deeper, faster, with more power, his hand firm at her back, ensuring that every thrust knocked him against the spot that drove her wild, over and over until she was lost to sizzling, impossible pleasure, her eyes sliding closed. She was going to—

  “Look at me,” he whispered, one hand sliding into her curls, tightening in a glorious sting. “Sesily, look at me, love.”

  How could she resist one last look?

  How could he?

  They moved together, perfect. Like they were made for each other.

  She’d known they would be.

  She’d known they were.

  “Now, love,” he whispered. Commanded. Rocking up into her. “Take it.”

  She did, coming hard around him, falling into pleasure with his name on her lips as he came inside her with beautiful, heavy thrusts that made her wish he was closer.

  Losing her strength, she fell into his arms, against him, and he caught her. Of course he did. Because that was where she belonged . . . in his arms. Sesily, who had spent her whole life in motion, restless, searching for more, for different, for better . . . found peace.

  She sighed against his chest, where his heart beat in a wild rhythm that matched her own, and his hands never left her, stroking over her skin, tracing patterns with his touch, leaving tingling pleasure in his wake.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and whispered her name into her hair. “Sesily . . .”

  She warmed. No one had ever said her name like that. Like it was more than her. Like it was the wide world.

  Like it was all he’d ever wanted.

  They lay there, tangled in each other, for an age, heartbeats slowing, breath evening, the fire painting their skin in light and heat, the storm outside making it seem like there was nothing beyond this cottage.

  Just the two of them.

  A pair . . .

  Caleb held her as she fell asleep in his arms, warm and soft and wonderful, her skin like silk against his rough palms. Glorying in all the ways she was his opposite. Soft where he was rough, lush where he was firm. Lingering on the ways she offered him pleasure, the way he took it, greedy for more.

  He marveled at her.

  Marveled at this—the closest he would ever come to paradise.

  The closest he would ever be to free.

  He wrapped his arms around her, loving the way she sighed and curled into him, the way she claimed him, even in sleep. For the rest of his life, this day—these stolen hours in the rain, in this place that tempted him with the impossible—would be the memory he held closest. On the darkest nights, he would imagine her here, in his arms, and he would remember that, for a heartbeat, he’d known peace. He’d known home.

  Home. What a strange, impossible word.

  A word he’d never allowed himself to think before then.

  A word that came with dangerous companions—companions like hope. Like joy. Like the future.

  Like love.

  He loved her.

  The thought shattered through him, tightening his chest until it ached, and he had to release her to rub a hand over his heart, willing away the pain.

  Wondering if it would ever go away, now that he knew what he might have had in another world. A different past. A different future.

  Sesily Talbot was not the kind of woman who let the future slip through her fingers. She was the kind of woman who claimed it, and everything that came with it—beauty and hope and laughter and love. And Caleb.

  Christ, he wanted to be claimed by her.

  He’d had a glimpse of what it could be to be claimed by this magnificent woman, and he wanted it beyond words.

  But it was impossible.

  Guilt and something else swirled through him—something he’d sworn to her he wouldn’t feel. Regret.

  He loved her.

  He loved her, and because of it, he had to get out of England.

  And never return.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next evening, doing her very best to put the events of the previous day out of her mind, Sesily entered the Duchess of Trevescan’s home on South Audley Street through the servants’ entrance to discover the regular ball in full swing.

  When it was said that everyone who was anyone attended parties at Trevescan House, few understood the full truth of that statement.

  Every second Tuesday, in the same room where the duchess had hosted the brightest stars in London for the ball that ended the Earl of Totting, she hosted the stars of a different constellation. Just as bright. Just as brilliant. Just as powerful, refracted through a different lens.

  Tonight, she hosted the maids.

  The difference in the evenings could not be more stark—gone were the powdered, liveried footmen, the staid orchestra, the bland food, the tepid punch, the ridiculous gowns, and the icy, disapproving gaze of the ton’s most respected titles. Tonight, the room was filled with raucous laughter and loud conversation, cakes and tarts piled high and ale and wine liberally poured by . . . well, there were footmen, but they weren’t required to remain barely seen and never heard.

  The attendees came dressed for their pleasure, some in simple, every day dress, some in trousers, and some clad in frocks far prettier than the fashio
ns of the day for which their mistresses paid Bond Street handsomely. Whether in simple lawn or castoff silk, ladies’ maids knew how to wield a needle and thread, and Tuesday nights were the proof.

  The orchestra had been replaced by a collection of musicians who played music meant for real dancing—no simpering steps for this lot, and the ballroom was packed full of dozens of women, many of whom were employed by Mayfair’s most revered titles.

  One would think that the most powerful homes in London would easily discover that they were lacking in female servants on particular Tuesday evenings, but that would require the residents of those homes to pay attention to their servants when they were out of view. Which rarely happened.

  Suffice to say, if any of the duchess’s Park Lane neighbors wandered in, they’d be shocked to their shoes and most definitely require smelling salts.

  Every second Tuesday on South Audley was an absolute delight. And if Sesily were telling the truth, Mayfair maids were far more interesting than their employers.

  In the two years since Sesily and the duchess had come to know each other, Sesily had attended this particular soiree countless times, and continued to marvel at it being the absolute best kept secret in London.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise, of course, as no one kept secrets better than aristocratic servants.

  Or, rather, no one kept secrets from aristocrats better than aristocratic servants.

  And every woman in attendance knew that this party was to be kept secret. The duchess ensured it, by making sure every woman in attendance had access to more than the party. Every guest had access to freedom.

  On these evenings, just inside the rear entrance to Trevescan House, accessible to all who passed, was an ancient, chipped soup tureen, dug out from the dark corners of the Trevescan kitchen and filled with money. There were no rules for borrowing from the tureen—there were no limits to the amount that could be taken, nor was it required that funds be returned. Instead, the money was available to any guest who needed it. To escape a horrid employer, to help a friend in need, to find passage out of London. No questions asked.

  Once, Sesily had praised the duchess’s cleverness in adding payment of sorts to the women who attended her soirees, and the other woman had corrected her instantly. The money was to help, not to barter. It was not for quid pro quo, but to ease the ever-present worry that so many women had when money was not available and they were in over their heads.

  The duchess knew the truth: money was power. And on these evenings, she did what she could to put power into the hands of women who too often had too little.

  Take what you need, the duchess would tell her guests when asked. And if someday, you’ve something to spare, you may always return.

  The Tuesday night group rarely had guineas to spare . . . but they knew the value of what they did have.

  Gossip. Worth far more than coin.

  Weaving in and out of the jovial crowd, Sesily made her way to the far end of the ballroom, where the duchess held court over the revelers. Missing nothing, she caught Sesily’s eye and waved her through the crush, which took longer than expected, for all the stopping Sesily did to chat with women she recognized.

  Apprentice seamstresses from Bond Street and ladies’ maids from Park Lane, a beloved cook from a club on St. James’s who always had something interesting to say—gentlemen were quick to show their entire arse at their clubs, Sesily found.

  Turning away from a group of laughing women, she collected a glass of wine from a passing tray and returned to her path, getting no more than a few steps before recognizing a new face in the crowd—familiar because she’d seen her just the day before, at a different aristocratic house. One of the battalion of nursemaids who worked for Seleste.

  Sesily smiled. “Eve, isn’t it?”

  The young Black woman’s eyes went wide as she recognized her employer’s sister, and she started to drop a little curtsy before Sesily shook her head, staying the movement. She put a finger to her lips. “Tonight, we keep each other’s secrets.”

  Eve nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  “Sesily, please.”

  Eve hesitated, obviously perplexed by the extraordinary situation before apparently remembering that there was nothing ordinary about this place or this party. She nodded once, firmly, and offered a small smile. “Sesily.”

  “Don’t tell my sister?”

  The woman’s smile broadened. “Tell her what?”

  Sesily laughed and winked at her co-conspirator before they both spun off in different directions. Pushing through the crowd, she reached the duchess, raised up on the dais at the edge of the ballroom, keeping watch over the festivities.

  Collapsing next to her friend on the divan upholstered in brilliant emerald velvet, Sesily drank her wine, considered the crush below, and said, “You’re inviting the girls who work for my sisters now?”

  “Your sisters have money and title, don’t they?”

  “As do I.”

  “Yes, but I know your secrets.”

  Sesily shook her head, impressed. No one was out of Duchess’s reach. “Ruthless. Really.”

  The duchess waved a dismissive hand. “You know it would take something truly catastrophic to use whatever I’ve got on your family.”

  “Ruthless, nevertheless.”

  The duchess inclined her head. “Probably. But your sisters’ employees deserve a good party, too, don’t they?”

  “Considering my hellion nephews, that girl deserves every party she can find.” She forced herself to survey the rest of the room, disliking the way the reference to her nephews, to her sister, brought with it an echo of the previous day. A shadow of it.

  Of him.

  She pushed it away. She wasn’t here for him.

  She was here for the opposite.

  “Anything of interest tonight?”

  “Everything is of interest at one point or another,” their hostess said, summoning a passing footman to claim a fresh glass of champagne. “In fact . . .” She trailed off, her gaze falling to a gathering of young women nearby, several of whom appeared absolutely terrified.

  It wasn’t uncommon for newcomers to the event to be nervous about meeting the Duchess of Trevescan—but no one made a body feel more welcome than she. Sesily smiled as her friend came off the divan and approached the girls, taking their hands and leaning close to introduce herself. Tonight might be a party for the women who came, but it was work for their hostess. Though she never made it seem as such.

  Sesily returned her attention to the room. There, at the center of the crowd, Adelaide spun and spun in a wild reel. She was joined by Lady Nora and her partner, Nik, apparently free that evening of her duties as lieutenant to the Bareknuckle Bastards, Covent Garden’s king smugglers.

  As she watched Adelaide’s skirts rise up like a silken parachute in a children’s game, Sesily considered a dance herself . . . until the tempo of the music whirled faster and faster and Nora tipped into Nik’s arms, and the two shared a laughing, gasping kiss that made Sesily’s stomach flip with something she didn’t wish to identify.

  There was nothing at all attractive about envy.

  And there certainly wasn’t anything appealing about wondering at the whereabouts of Caleb Calhoun, cad, scoundrel, bounder, and now . . . ghost.

  He’d left her.

  She ignored the thought, deliberately looking away from the joyful embrace, searching for Imogen. Imogen wouldn’t be dancing. She’d be talking. And sure enough, Sesily found her in the corner of the room, gesticulating wildly to an audience that hung on her every word.

  As she watched, Imogen spread her arms wide in the universal sign for boom.

  Surely this was the only party in Mayfair where young women were discussing explosives.

  Nearby, the duchess nodded to the women she was speaking with and said, “You take what you need for now. Leave your names with Mr. Singh.” She indicated the tall, handsome Punjabi man on the balcony above, a fixture at these
events.

  To all of Mayfair, Lashkar Singh was the Duke of Trevescan’s London man of affairs, proxy for the duke himself, keeping the duchess from spending Trevescan funds on frocks and frivolities. Of course, nothing related to Trevescan House was quite what it seemed. Mr. Singh was a brilliant mind and worked closely with the duchess, keeping all of her secrets and a few of his own. He’d have letters of reference prepared for these women within minutes.

  “We shall find you new positions. In better houses. With decent employers. Understand?” The girls nodded seriously, several dashing away tears. “And you come see me if you need anything else, yes?”

  Satisfied with their response, the duchess found Mr. Singh above, and the two shared a look. Sorted.

  Sesily considered her friend. “Alright?”

  The duchess sat next to her. “Totting’s closing the London house. Running to the country. Refuses to pay any of the servants’ severance.”

  “Bastard,” Sesily said. “Can’t even turn tail with decency.”

  “Yes, well, as long as he turns tail, I’m happy to help with the decency part,” the duchess said. “We’ll find a list of his country servants and do what we can for them. And once he’s gone, we cross another off our list.”

  Another terrible man, dispatched.

  “And for every head that rolls, two grow in its place,” Sesily replied. “Truthfully, I’m beginning to think they are all bad.”

  The duchess slid her a look.

  “Except for your duke, of course. Bless him and his fat bank accounts and his absolute disinterest in London.”

  Duchess lifted her champagne in a toast. “I shall drink to it.”

  “But only him,” Sesily said.

  “Sesily, darling, it seems you have had a difficult day.”

  “What would make you think that?”

  “Well, your Medusa-like loathing for the men of the species did give me a clue.”

  Sesily sulked. “I wish everyone would stop comparing me to goddesses.”