Desire Me More (24 page)

An Excerpt from

DESIRE ME NOW

S
he needed to get out of this house—and fast. Sliding out of the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible, she knelt on the cold plank floor and pulled out the sack she'd stowed under the bed. Retrieving what clothes she had, she rolled them up tight and stuffed them into the bag.

At the washbasin, she gathered the last bit of soap she'd taken from her home in Berwick and the silver brush that had been her mother's. She had no other possessions, except a small oil painting of her parents in a broken silver locket, given to her on her tenth birthday and torn from her neck during one of her brother's rages on her eighteenth birthday.

Pulling up a loose floorboard, she retrieved her drawstring reticule with the money she'd stolen from her brother. It wasn't a lot of money, but it had been enough to get her to London and pay for lodgings for a month, if she had needed that long to find a job. The money would be put to good use now.

She packed only what she'd come with, as she didn't want her employer accusing her of thievery. Hopefully, if she left quietly, Sir Ian wouldn't pursue her, as she knew something of the determination of men when they were denied what they wanted.

With her sack tied and slung over one shoulder, and her shawl and mantle over her dress to keep her possessions safe, she tiptoed down the servants' stairs and escaped out the back gate near the stable house. The cool air bit at her cheeks, so she quickened her stride, hoping that would keep her warm.

Once she was on the main streets, Amelia kept her head down so no one would see the tears flooding her eyes. It hit her suddenly that she'd left behind her last hope for a decent job.

Had she known how abhorrent her employer was, she'd have turned down the opportunity to teach his children. Sir Ian hadn't wanted a proper governess for his young boys; he'd wanted a mistress living under his own roof. A woman he could visit in the cover of night, when his ill, bedridden wife was none the wiser.

She covered her mouth with her lace-gloved hand, feeling sick to her stomach. All she could do now was go back to the agency that had placed her and hope to find new employment.

Where would she go if they turned her away?

She picked up her stride, even though she'd developed a stitch in her side that made breathing difficult. She had only been in London for three weeks. Not enough time to make friends or learn her way around. She didn't even know where she could find decent, safe lodgings. She supposed there was enough money to put herself on a train and go back home to her brother.

No. Never that.

She refused to lower herself to that type of desperation. She would find another job. In fact, she would demand a new placement from the agency. She was well educated and the daughter of a once-prominent earl, which made her valuable and an asset for any job requiring someone intelligent and capable.

The only problem was that she'd told no one in London of her true identity.

Someone jostled her shoulder, spinning her from the path she walked.

“Pardon, ma'am,” he said, grasping her under the arm to right her footing.

Before she could turn and offer her gratitude, he was just another bobbing hat on the street. Reaching for her reticule to pull out her handkerchief, she came up empty-handed.

“That thief!” she shouted and then slapped her hand over her mouth.

Those around her called up the alarm. She pointed in the direction she was sure the thief had gone, but there wasn't a suspicious soul to be seen.

Amelia started pushing through the crowded street, apologizing along the way when she knocked into a few pedestrians. She grew frantic and inhaled in great gulps, trying to get air into her lungs and to keep at bay the panic that was threatening to rob her of her ability to think rationally.

Eventually, her feet slowed as the cramping in her side worsened. She could barely see beyond the tears falling from her eyes. Her face was damp, and she had nothing to wipe it clean except the sleeve of her day dress. She was unfit to go to the agency, but what other choice did she have?

Despair robbed her of the last of her breath, and she was forced to stop her pursuit.

Bracing one arm against an old stone building, she breathed in and out until she was calm. The last of her tears had dried on her face and made her cheeks stiff.

She should give up, crawl back to her brother, and beg for his eternal forgiveness. There were few viable choices left to her. She couldn't stay out in the streets. Awful things happened to women who had no place to go. Things far worse than what she had escaped, though in a moment of clarity, she might refute that statement.

Walking around to the side of the building where she'd stopped, she threw up the dinner she'd eaten the previous night. Feeling dizzy and unwell, she drew on the last of her courage, straightened her shoulders, and somehow found the strength to continue walking.

She needed to find new employment and accommodations without delay. The agency had been a room full of women; they would understand the situation she'd found herself in. They would help her.

Light-headed, she walked toward Fleet Street, where the agency was tucked neatly behind a printing house. While the day had started rather dreary and dull in so many senses, the odd peek of sunshine cut through the coal-heavy air and pressed against her face. The sun warming her skin gave her a glimmer of optimism.

When the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, she focused on her surroundings and caught sight of a group of urchins, recognizing the tallest of the bunch immediately.

“You little swindler. Give me back what is mine,” she cried out loud and clear.

The boy, who had been counting the contents in her reticule, pocketed her money and took off at a full run. His pace was quick and light-footed, and she was sure he took one step to her three, though she still tried to catch up to him.

Shaken, with a cramp in her side and the dizzy feeling growing worse through her body, Amelia refused to give in. When the urchin dodged across a street heavy with traffic, she knew there was no time for hesitation. She needed that money back.

Before she made it halfway across the road, the urchin was lost among the carts. Tears welled in her eyes again, blurring her vision. Someone yelled for her to get off the road; someone else emphasized his point with obscenities she didn't fully comprehend.

Though nearly to the other side, she didn't move quite fast enough for the two-seat open carriage clipping down the street much more swiftly than the other carts.

“Move, you bloody fool,” the driver bellowed.

His speeding horses, black as pitch, headed toward her like the devil on her heels. She hiked up her skirts and ran but tripped over the stone curb and tumbled hard to her knees, twisting her foot on the way down. The pain of the impact caused black spots to dot across her vision. As she tried to gain her footing, she collapsed back onto her bruised, pained knees and cried.

A strong arm supported her under her elbow and hauled her to her feet, but it was apparent to them both that she couldn't stand on her own. When the stranger knelt before her, all she saw was his tall beaver hat as he put one arm around her back and shoulders and the other under her legs. That was all the warning he gave before he lifted her into his arms and walked up the lawn as if she weighed nothing.

“Thank you,” she said weakly, her heated face pressed into his finely made wool jacket. His cologne was subtle and masculine with undertones of amber and citrus. She inhaled the scent deeper, wanting that comforting smell to wrap around her, wishing it would let her forget just how her day had unfolded.

Instead of releasing her when they were away from the road, he continued walking up the slight incline of the grassy field. A flush washed over her face as she stuttered for words of admonishment that anyone might see this gentleman carrying a poor, injured woman in his arms. She didn't actually want him to put her down, but common decency demanded it of her.

Gazing at the face under his well-made top hat stopped any further protestations. She dropped her gaze and stared at his striped necktie tucked neatly into a charcoal vest.

“You need not carry me. I can find my way,” she said, but her request lacked any conviction.

The sun shone through the clouds once more, shining directly in her eyes and allowing her to pull away from the power that radiated from his gaze.

His short, close-clipped beard emphasized the strong line of his jaw. Black hair fanned out a little under his hat, longer than fashionable but suiting to the rough edge this man carried.

She could tell that his mouth, though pinched, was full, the bow on top well defined. The type of lips young ladies tittered and wrote poems about.

“I just witnessed you hike up your skirts well past your shins to run across one of the busiest streets in London.” His voice was gruff, with a sensual quality that warmed her right to the very core.

Just as she thought her blush couldn't get worse, she felt her ears burning from the blunt observation of what he'd witnessed.

Amelia cleared her throat, realizing she'd been staring at him too long. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”

He settled her down on a slated wood bench under the shade of an ancient burled oak tree. “It's arguable that you did that in a careful manner,” he said.

The gentleman removed his leather gloves, set them on the bench beside her, and went down on his knees to stretch out her foot to look at the injury she'd done herself.

She tucked her feet under the bench, away from his searching hands. They were in the open, and anyone could see his familiarity. “I only need to rest a minute. I wish I could repay you for your troubles, but I have nothing of value . . . ”

When he looked at her—really looked at her—she was struck speechless by the sincerity of his regard. His eyes were gray like flint and as hard as steel.
Unusual and beautiful
, she thought. But it wasn't the color that had her at a loss for words. It was the intensity behind his gaze that made her feel that she was the only person in the world he was focused on; almost like nothing but the two of them existed on this tiny patch of grass in the middle of the bustling city.

This perfect man before her, who clearly didn't have to worry about putting a roof over his head or bread on the table, held a maelstrom of emotions in his cool, assessing gaze. She trusted what she saw in his eyes, trusted a man for the first time in she didn't know how long.

She wanted to reach toward his face but grasped the edge of the bench tightly instead.

Just how dire her situation was hit her so hard, she swayed where she sat. Her money was gone, her only picture of her parents taken with it.

And then she cried.

She didn't mean to. She didn't even think she had the energy left for such an outpouring. But she couldn't stop now that the dam had broken on her emotions. Histrionics didn't seem to put her rescuer off, because he only huffed a helpless breath and waited for her to calm herself, which she tried to do in great gulping breaths.

“Let me get you to a doctor.” His voice was deep and commanding. He would never have to raise his voice to draw the attention of those around him. It was the kind of voice to which one was naturally drawn, and it stirred something deep inside her.

She shook her head at his offer.

She needed to loosen whatever spell he had over her.

She felt the command of his stare but did not turn her face up to his again.

“Let me see you to a doctor to ensure it is nothing more than a turned ankle,” he offered, his voice full of sincerity.

She shook her head again. She tried to explain about the agency, but none of what she said came out coherently, and her tears fell harder.

Before she could attempt saying anything more, her rescuer lifted her in his arms once again and strode toward the street.

 

An Excerpt from

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