Wayward One (16 page)

After receiving the note, Fletcher would take over the investigation of his staff. She’d made no headway in trying to discover who’d damaged her belongings, though she’d spoken to every employee. Perhaps if she shunted the whole matter over to him, he could find a solution.

The purpose of such a note was obscure. Certainly she’d turned the place inside out and shaken things up, but it was all for the better. Perhaps a thief filching funds or stealing small items feared being found out. No one would harm her to protect such petty crimes. Likely they only wished to scare her away.

She rubbed the heel of her hand under her collarbones, where her pulse pounded. They’d succeeded rather extraordinarily.

Sprawled in a chair in one of the parlors—the rose parlor, as his valet informed him—Fletcher nursed a glass of brandy. If he was willing to admit it, he watched the doorway like a hawk, waiting on Seraphina.

Sera. He had to remember that.

Resisting the urge to yank off his cravat, he settled for wiggling a finger underneath the edge of the sleek black fabric. Formally dressing for dinner felt ridiculous, especially when he was going to eat at his own dining table. But if that was what Sera wanted, that was what Sera would get. He’d taken Hayne’s assistance in donning the black suit coat, but at least he’d been able to put on his own damn pants. He wasn’t some lordling with more ego than sense. He’d also drawn the line at the top hat Haynes tried to press into his hands. Wearing a hat simply to venture downstairs was a level of pretension Fletcher refused.

Dipping his fingers into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, he smoothed a touch over cool metal. He’d spent the last three hours going round and round this afternoon’s kiss.

He should damn the devil to hell and take more at the first opportunity.

He should send her away.

He should keep and claim her, as he’d always planned.

The door opened, revealing first the livery-clad arm of a footman. Then Sera.

Fletcher jumped to his feet, an immediate response of the body rather than a polite demonstration of manners.

She wore a pale pink dress the color of a maiden’s blush. The sleek bodice skimmed over her curves and lovingly snugged her hips, before sweeping out behind her in a small bustle and train. White trim edged the top of a bodice that bared pale shoulders and the sweetest hint of bosoms he’d ever seen. His hands itched to be filled with such proud perfection.

He would worship at her feet so long as she deigned to allow him. All those years ago, he’d sent her away as the best way to protect her. Things had changed. He wasn’t the blustering boy he’d once been. The best way to keep her safe now was to give in to the fierceness and possession.

“You look…” Words fled him. He’d never been adept at pretty flatteries, and when confronted with such pure loveliness he lost all semblance. “Beautiful,” he finally finished.

She blushed and ducked her head. Almost as quickly, she slanted a look at him through her lashes. Though she playacted at the demure lady, she seemed to revel in the power she imposed on him.

As well she should. If only she guessed, he’d fold up the world into a tiny gift to place at her feet. Such lackadaisical vulnerability was the sort to get a man a knife in his spine.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“Can I get you some refreshments?”

She shook her head, tucking up one side of her mouth in a smile he’d like to kiss away. “No, thank you. I’ve never been much enamored with spirits.”

He took another drink of brandy, trying to wash away the taste of her mouth. He found himself entirely too distracted by the memory. “Is that another one of your rules?”

She shrugged. He half-hoped the tiny fluffs that served as sleeves would slip free. “It’s not advised that one lose control of her senses, but a glass of wine or the like isn’t frowned upon. I just never particularly liked the effect of alcohol. The haze it gives has only one purpose, to obscure one’s judgment.”

“Some people like that obscured judgment. Leads to more fun.”

The heat flaring in her eyes snitched on her. She was thinking of their kiss, remembering it. Her tongue peeked out to touch the corner of her mouth. “As it is, I’ll abstain. Thank you though.”

“Your choice.” He certainly wasn’t going to pour alcohol down her throat. He liked her as she was, sharp and witty and with that incisive way of seeing into him.

“I thought we might go into supper then? Since it’s only us, it seems a bit silly to pretend at more.” She was faintly tentative, eyebrows rising in an imploring way, as if she thought he’d deny her.

“By all means.”

She tucked her hand around his elbow. No pulling close and rubbing her breasts on his arm, no matter how fervently he might wish. She wasn’t the type.

The dining room looked impeccable. Two place settings floated on a sky’s worth of white tablecloth, the table entirely too long. He was gratified to see he wouldn’t need to shout down the table, since the other was set immediately to the right of the head.

Fletcher saw her seated in her chair, ignoring the footman standing by to take care of the duty. By damn, he would be the only person to glimpse over her shoulder, enjoying the shadowy recess of her cleavage. The dim cleft hinted at even more bounty concealed by that dratted white braid edging.

He gave his jacket a strategic tug as he sat and found himself wishing for the fuller coat bottoms of years prior. As near as he was to embarrassing them both, he had to chuckle.

The scourge of Whitechapel was nearly unmanned by less than an inch of bare flesh. Half the attraction was the contrast to her usual buttoned-up day dresses, but the rest was all Sera and her pale, creamy skin. The graceful bones that outlined her shoulders were made to receive kisses and licks.

“Care to share the joke?”

Fletcher waited until the footman poured deep red wine for both of them then stepped back to his post by the door to the kitchens. “I’m simply wondering what’s missing from there,” he lied, gesturing to the space above the mantelpiece.

“Hmm.” She lifted the wineglass to her mouth, but as near as he could tell she didn’t drink anything. The wine glossed her lips with a sheen he’d love to lick off. Her distaste for alcohol was unsurprising considering what he knew of her mother’s last year or so. There had been a lot of gin involved. “Ostensibly it was a religious painting.”

“Ostensibly?”

“There were angels involved, complete with wings and halos. But I don’t believe they ever actually attempted to obey the Lord’s directive to go forth and be fruitful.”

“No, I don’t suppose they did. You know, people are going to think I’ve fallen on hard times, what with all these pale patches on the wallpaper.”

“How grateful I am that you brought that up.”

The footman silently stepped between them to serve the first course of oxtail soup. Sera smiled at him, and Fletcher was relieved he wouldn’t have to fire the boy. An impersonal smile had been inked on her lips and no more. “Thank you, James.”

“My solvency?” he asked, once James had stepped away. “You have only to name a figure and it will be at your disposal.”

She waved him off. “Discussing finances in mixed company is distasteful. You’d do well to remember that. Besides, I’ve no similar concerns. That’s your goal, not mine. I wish to consult with you on the decorating itself.”

“Do what you like. I’ve no concerns about that,” he echoed in a deliberate tease.

She rose to the bait, bristling like he’d expected. “This is your home—the public demonstration of your private self. You ought to be concerned.”

“I can manufacture some if you like.”

She came just short of rolling her eyes at him as she swallowed a mouthful of soup. He did his best not to smirk. He liked getting under her skin and seeing that he affected her in some way. As poised as Sera was, one could believe they hadn’t had their mouths pressed together this afternoon, hadn’t fed off each other’s hunger.

“Who was in charge of the decorating the first time, if you care so little?”

“I fobbed it off on the architect.” Fletcher swirled his spoon through the shallow bowl before him. “He wasn’t particularly pleased, kept saying something about it being beneath him, but I told him if he didn’t, I’d like as not leave his masterpiece half undone. At the time, I couldn’t be bothered. I think Rick might have had a bit of a hand in it here and there as well.”

A considering frown wrinkled her brow. “I wonder if the…sensual theme was Mr. Raverst’s doing, or the architect’s idea of a joke on you.”

“Either is possible.” Fletcher had hardly gotten a taste of the soup before James slid it out from under Fletcher’s spoon. At least it was immediately replaced with a fillet of rabbits. “The architect was some toff’s son. He could have thought it was quite the joke to set the rich social climber up with paintings that verged on vulgar. On the other hand, Rick’s always had a bit of an eye for the ladies.”

Something about that didn’t please her. Her rich chocolate eyes managed to go even darker. He half-hoped it was fiery defense that anyone would make him the butt of a joke but suspected it was actually due to his association with Rick. They’d been rather prickly around each other on the passing occasions they’d met over the past week.

“Social climber is a crass phrase, and I don’t believe it of you at all.”

He shrugged. “The label doesn’t matter. It’s the truth of it, after all. I want to be more than I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I can certainly sympathize. After all, what is concealing my birth but a form of social climbing?”

“I thought your mother was of good birth. Your father as well.”

She forked up a piece of meat. “Don’t tell me you believed that claptrap. Mother, perhaps. She certainly had the bearing and the education. I was always doubtful as to her stories about my father. If he’d been a lord, wouldn’t he have claimed the child of an unmarried debutante?”

He slipped his hand in his pocket, feeling the little gold trinket he’d carried for years. “One never knows.”

He ought to tell her, but he was a selfish man. If there was even a chance she could use the knowledge to leave him, he would hold back. All his years of preparation wouldn’t go to naught.

She smiled and he wanted to howl. It was another of her empty smiles, the placeholders for real emotion. “But we’ve got off track. I’d like to suggest you host a dinner with Lord Linsley and his wife as the guests of honor.”

He shifted at the thought of inviting them into his house. Previously he’d had no difficulties escaping when he’d started feeling out of place at their gatherings. If everyone were at his house, he would have no way to leave.

Bloody hell, he hadn’t realized he was such a damn coward. “Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves? It takes a while to redecorate, not to mention there’s me to reform.”

She afforded him a slow, measuring look. He practically preened under it like some sort of moon-eyed youth with a cock that twitched toward the nearest piece of pussy.

“I’ve begun to doubt that you need much work at all.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “While I can’t be certain why your previous ventures have failed, I’ve begun to think it’s not you. You verge on inappropriate at times, but you’ve a certain raffish charm that ought to be sufficient to overcome it.”

“You think I’m charming, do you?”

Her spine went straighter than the chair at her back. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh, I believe it’s the point to me.”

A high splash of color decorated her cheeks. “The earl. A dinner. Are you agreeable?”

The blush spread down to the tops of her luscious breasts, turning them the color they might be when she was in the throes of orgasm. Or when he’d spent hours worshipping and adoring her, licking and nibbling her from head to toe. He’d end with his lips at her sweet secrets, tipping the velvet until she screamed with pleasure.

He’d host a hundred such dinners if it meant seeing her in dresses that displayed her décolletage. The entire empire ought to know what a treasure she was. What a jewel he’d helped forge. “I am at your disposal.”

From there the dinner conversation moved on to the more mundane. The new opera being put on at The Royal Opera House—Sera had seen it performed by another cast, while Fletcher had never even heard of it. He was fairly sure he managed to conceal his lack of knowledge. Somehow they started on childhood memories, which led to much laughing.

It was a little disconcerting, all in all. Between the candlelight, the close place settings and the quiet laughter, this was the most intimate moment he’d had with a woman in years. Perhaps ever.

He found himself reluctant to let the evening end. He lingered over his port, and though she didn’t drink any she seemed willing to indulge him. They sat at the remains of the meal, which Fletcher could hardly remember actually eating even a bite of, and kept talking.

Talking. It seemed so simple, yet so foreign.

Eventually he had to put in an appearance at Whitmans, his highest end property. The play went deeper when he was there, and the toffs bought more drinks as they tried to impress him with their bottomless pockets.