Lady Be Good (18 page)

She’d been raised in streets the rich would never dare to walk. She’d grown up speaking in the round vowels and dropped consonants of an East Ender. But her desires were not jokes. She would not share them for the entertainment of a viscount.

“Money doesn’t make a person special,” she said. “It doesn’t breed taste or decency or character.”

His gaze was steady, open. “I would never argue otherwise.”

“Good,” she said. “Because many do seem to think themselves better people for the fullness of their pockets. When what they are, in fact, is lucky. Money is luck. It gives you protection, and allows you to take chances that others can’t. You can visit the British Museum on a weekday, when others must work—it’s closed on the holidays, did you know that? You can study antiques, instead of worrying about next week’s wages. You can develop good taste, if you like.”

“Yet many fail to do so,” he said. “And comfort, for all its perks, can stifle one’s initiative. For instance, I doubt most clerks’ daughters would dare to pursue a career.”

There was a compliment in his remark. She hesitated before accepting it, knowing how easy it would be to
give herself away. “Perhaps it’s not the career I want. Perhaps I only want the wages.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He offered her a wry smile. “On a soldier’s pay, I did think longingly of the first-class compartment. Velvet cushions make far nicer seating than a wooden bench.”

She snorted. “When did you ever travel on wooden benches? You were always the son of a viscount, even when a soldier.”

“A second son,” he said. “Raised in wealth, yes. But I always knew it would never be mine. I would make my own way—that was made clear to me as a boy.”

The rich did things so oddly. In Whitechapel, a family shared what it had, no matter who was firstborn. “That seems unjust. Surely there was money to spare.”

“But I didn’t want it,” he said. “That is . . . Naturally it sometimes chafed, seeing my brother take the lion’s share of attention. But it was also a great blessing. I would have the freedom to make my own place in the world. A freedom that Geoff didn’t have.” He glanced into his teacup, then set it down. “Didn’t want, either. Were life just, he would still be here. Overseeing the estates, adjudicating tenants’ quarrels. Speechifying in Parliament, and whatnot.”

Something complex and raw lurked beneath his light words. It had never occurred to her that he might feel ill suited to his position—that anyone would scruple at such an inheritance. “You don’t want the title?”

“I want my brother back.” His mouth compressed into a grim line. “All the rest is detail.”

She remembered reading of his bereavement in the newspaper. He’d been a stranger, then—a distant figure, no more real to her than myth.

But now, as she looked at him, she recognized a kindred spirit. He’d lost somebody dear. That death had changed the entire course of his life.

Behind him, out the window, a flock of birds winged past, dark silhouettes against the lowering sun. The distant trees lifted their leaves to a passing breeze. Beautiful scene. Fiona would have liked the country, after all. Had she lived,
she
would have been here right now. The Everleigh Girl. And Lilah . . . a secretary. The instructors at the typing school had felt she had promise. With Fee’s support, she would have finished the advanced course.

It would have made a more respectable path. Tedious, but safer. A secretary could age, and turn gray. An Everleigh Girl could not.

“You would still be a soldier,” she said. “Had your brother lived.”

He nodded.

“That’s dangerous labor.”

“True. The danger was the rotten bit.” He gave her a fleeting smile, sharp with self-mockery. “But there was also a great sense of camaraderie, of course. A sense of joint effort, and true brotherhood. And it wasn’t all violent. Rebuilding a destroyed village, shoring up the banks of a flooding river—we did a great deal of good in the world.”

“I imagine a viscount can do so as well,” she said hesitantly.

“Of course.” He paused. “But it’s a position best suited to an autocrat, I think.” He cocked a brow. “Or a collector, or a sybarite. I was never very fond of the gilded cage.”

A gilded cage sounded much nicer than a soldier’s
barracks, or a windowless room at a boardinghouse. “You seem to inhabit it easily enough.”

He acknowledged her cynical tone with a brief bow of his head. “Indeed. I’m an excellent fraud.”

A thought struck her. They were both living lives that rightfully had belonged to their siblings. “Then so am I,” she said.

He lifted a brow. “How are you a fraud?”

“Everleigh Girls aren’t meant to pick pockets.”

“Nor are viscounts,” he said with a wolfish grin. “But I put one over on you, didn’t I?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Luck.”

“So you’ll tell yourself.”

“If you want to do good, why haven’t you taken your seat in Parliament?”

“You
have
been reading about me.” He sat back, eyeing her. “Do I intrigue you, Miss Marshall?”

Overmuch
. “Know thy enemy,” she said—a timely reminder to herself.
Enemy
.

“Are we enemies, then? It feels otherwise.”

She caught her breath. He’d admitted to this odd rapport, brought it into the open. It thrilled and frightened her at once. He was studying her with his beautiful eyes, irises like honey, his gaze frank, challenging:
Be as brave. Admit it
.

“We should be enemies.” God help her, that would be so much wiser.

“Or allies,” he said. “Our goal, after all, is the same.”

“You’re my blackmailer.”

“And you’re a thief. But that hardly outweighs your other qualities. Intelligence. Wit. Self-possession. In the field, Miss Marshall, I would want you at my back.”

She took a hard breath through her nose. “I thank you for the flattery—”

“That isn’t flattery,” he said. “Flattery is more poetic. If I wanted to flatter you, I would remark on your beauty. Your thick, dark hair. The slope of your shoulders. The color of your eyes. Last night at dusk, the sky reminded me of you.” He gave her a half smile. “And now you look very wary. Do you imagine me a liar? Surely you’ve glanced in a mirror, once or twice.”

She groped for good sense. “Miss Everleigh is far more beautiful.”

“Miss Everleigh is many things,” he said. “Lovely, intelligent, learned. You’re all of those things. And you’re fascinating.”

She stood, tea sloshing over her fingers. “I don’t think—”

“Have I frightened you?” He rose, towering over her. “That was hardly my intention. Merely to say—I can think of many grounds for friendship between us.”

She spoke very faintly, staring at his chest. “It’s not friendship you’re discussing, though.”

“It could be. Let me take you to bed. I’ll show you there what I mean.”

“Stop asking.”

“All right.” He took the cup from her hand. “I’ll stop asking,” he said gently, and bent to kiss her.

His kiss was just as devastating as she’d remembered. No—it was more. His mouth was warm, his tongue sure and insistent, and this time she did not hesitate before opening her mouth. He made a growling noise as he licked into her. Her hands closed around his coat, digging through the thick layers of fabric until she felt the flex of muscle in his back. He was built like an animal,
a great strapping beast, brutal strength, a lion’s proportions.

Small bites
. She wanted to be eaten.

He lifted her by the waist, swallowing her gasp. The world tilted; he carried her down into the wing chair, so she sprawled across his lap, only the iron banding of his arms to support her.

And still he kissed her—a slow, deep tangle of tongues, frankly carnal, nothing polite. She grasped his face, felt across his cheek, the sharpness of his cheekbone, the hard bone of his jaw. His stubble scratched her palm; he smelled like starched cotton and soap. She tilted back her head so his lips could reach her throat.

With a growl, he licked down her neck, biting lightly. Hot pleasure pulsed through her. She liked his teeth. She caught his wrist and squeezed it.

His hand turned in hers. Caught her fingers and lifted them to his mouth. He kissed her palm, meeting her eyes over their interlinked fingers. His were a wild pale gold, the eyes of a night creature on the hunt. “Lift your skirts,” he said hoarsely.

She stared at him. She was draped over him like a carpet. This was no position in which he could accomplish . . . regrettable things. Was it?

“Lift your skirts,” he repeated very softly. He licked the full length of her palm, then lowered her hand and placed it firmly on her calf.

What did he intend? What was
she
doing? For her hand obeyed even while her mind still balked. She lifted the hem, inch by inch, and his breath hissed against her temple, an urgent encouragement as her calf came into view.

He took hold of her calf, nudging her own hand out of the way—higher. “Go on,” he said.

She would stop now. In just a moment. Above her knee, she would stop. She pulled her hem higher, dazzled by the sight of her own slim calf, so ladylike in its embroidered stocking. His hand followed, trailing in a sure, firm stroke. His palm wrapped around her knee, a hot, solid warmth. She stared at this sight, the breadth of his large hand, tanned from the sun. These were her finest stockings, purchased on an extravagant whim; they looked all the more delicate beneath his grip. All the lovelier. So easily he might have ripped them. How tightly he held her!

“Higher,” he whispered.

Caught in some spell, she obeyed. He made a noise deep in his throat as she revealed the ribbon that tied her stocking at her thigh.

He slipped one finger beneath the edge of this ribbon, a hot shocking touch against her bare skin. A breath escaped her. A strange little puff. The sight was . . . wholly, unbearably erotic. The hard, callused press of his hand against her tender skin. The place between her thighs began to ache. His hand seemed to claim her.
Mine
, it said.

“Higher,” he growled.

She trembled, unable to take that final step.

His hand slipped upward, out of sight. Enveloped by her skirts. With his palm, he cupped her fully. He pressed hard, in that place where she ached, empty and needing.

A gasp tore from her. She laid her face in the crook of his shoulder.

He ground his palm against her. “Here,” he rasped.

His hand made a solid pressure against her. Her quim pulsed, a greedy demand.

His lips came against her ear. “The things I would do to you,” he said. “Give you what you need.”

Her hips jerked.
Do it
.

“Say the word.” He pressed harder. “Yes, that’s it. Rock. Rub against me.”

Ah, God—

“Say it.” He was growling against her now. “Tell me you want this.”

I want this
.

“Tell me to take you.”

Take me
. The words rang so clearly in her head that they penetrated her fever. She pushed away from him.

“Stop!” She scrambled to her feet, knocking her skirts down. “Stop! It’s my choice, you said.”

“Yes.” He loosed a long, hard breath. His blond hair was wild—from the clutch of her hands, she realized.
She
had done that to him. She had mussed him up, left him disheveled. Put her mark on him.
Mine
.

She stepped backward, away from that thought. Away from
him
. Away from her own stupidity.

Turning on her heel, she left before her mind could change.

“We’re calling it the Martini-Enfield.” Mr. William Scott, of the Small Arms Factory at Enfield, pulled the rifle from his carpetbag and laid it on Christian’s desk. He was a portly, bald, bespectacled man, with a shining, round head and a wide, strained smile. He was wearing a sprig of oak leaves in his buttonhole, which he fondled nervously.

He would not have been smiling at all, had he realized the narrowness of his escape this morning. Christian had eight men patrolling the grounds, who had not been forewarned to expect a guest. Had they lacked military backgrounds, they might not have recognized the vehicle’s insignia of the Royal Small Arms—in which case, Mr. Scott would never have reached the front door. Instead he would have been shown to a shed, in gag and shackles.