Wicked, My Love (13 page)

He turned the page and tried to settle back into the book, but his thoughts kept drifting to the feel of her breast under his hand, her shuddering breath, and how she pressed her pelvis against his. He was growing hard just thinking about her. Dammit!
Look
at
the
boring
numbers
in
the
book!

“Randall,” he heard her whisper. His head jerked up, but all he saw was an empty threshold. His heart pounded. In a swish of blue, the woman whom he had known for a good majority of his life now appeared like a stunning, beautiful stranger before him. Only her spectacles were reminders of his old enemy.

She clasped and unclasped her hands, smoothed her skirt which didn't need it, fingered the lock of hair curling along the side of her neck, then clasped her hands again. She blushed all the while, her face, with its majestic cheekbones and generous lips, turning a lovely rose color. His Mr. Headsmith grew so hard that it burned. He yanked the blanket from the back of the sofa to cover himself.

For several awkward and painful seconds, they didn't talk. Her flush deepened, spreading down her neck and spilling onto her chest. “W-well, how do I look?” she finally stammered.

“Well enough.” Anger seeped in as he studied her lovely breasts. “You look well.” He remembered that blue dress from before—something about Cecelia calling the gown plain—except on Isabella it was almost indecent. The color highlighted her alabaster skin and the cut draped on the curves of her body.
Damn
Mrs. Perdita!

She blinked. “Well enough? That's the best you can say?” Anger tightened her lovely features. “Not transcendent or…or…sublime, ravishing, unparalleled beauty, or your usual drivel?”

“You don't look like yourself,” he accused. “You've changed.” He wanted back the old Isabella of the flying-loose hair, the tumbling glasses, and the frumpy clothes. After last night, he knew she was a ravishing, sublime, unparalleled beauty, but he didn't want everyone else in the world to know it. She was his secret. A voice inside him, probably emitting from the general region of his rock-hard cock, growled,
You
are
mine.

“But that's how I want to look, not like me.”

“Why not? You're…” He paused. What was he going to say?
You're awkward, your hair is a rat's nest, your dresses would make a Parisian lady die from horror…and that's what I adore about you?

So they both waited in that unrelenting, raw silence, until she caved. “I'm going to see my stockbroker,” she said, and spun on her heel.

He bolted up from the sofa, erection and all. “You may not visit a man alone.” He thundered like some angry father.

She pivoted and stared at him, eyes hot, her mouth forming an outraged
O
.

“It will damage your reputation,” he choked. And wasn't he the one who was excellent at thinking on his feet?

“It would be rather shocking, wouldn't it?” she replied in a low, smooth voice that oozed of sarcasm. “Visiting a gentleman's place of business is almost as bad as visiting his pied-à-terre alone and wearing his ex-mistress's clothes.”

“This is different! We are in a crisis. And you—you can't leave me.”

She threw up her arms. The sound of a ripping seam echoed in the hall. “I can't exactly bring Lord Randall in tow either. I must think of my reputation.”

“Well, then I'm your long-lost Irish cousin, Mr. O'Randy,” he said, affecting an Irish brogue through his clenched teeth. “Fresh from Dublin.”

“Don't you dare!” She reached for her gloves, which were resting on the table by the door. She jammed them on her hands, and flexed and then balled her fingers. “You are staying here.”

He snatched his gloves and shoved them on before her face. “You are not going out alone.”

She bumped him with her hip, pushing him out of the way of the mirror, and arranged the ribbons of the tiny bonnet on her head. “I won't be alone. I have an appointment with my stockbroker. He's a sensible young man.”

Young
man!
Randall grabbed his hat, stepped in front of her, and watched her angry, pinched features in the mirror as he donned his hat, cocking the brim at an angle and then thumping it.

“You are behaving like a spoiled child,” she hissed. “What is wrong with you?”

“My future is at stake, and you think I'm just going to lie about here doing nothing.”
And
I'm not letting you see a young man alone in that dress.

She stepped around him, putting her face just mere inches from the mirror, and patted the netting of her bonnet. “Well, it's too bad that your mistress left you. Then you could lie about doing…doing whatever you
do
with your mistress.” She hiked the edge of her mouth, half flirting, half challenging. When did she learn that seasoned move? “W-which obviously wasn't that good, else she might still be here.”

That did it! This inexperienced spinster didn't question his manhood. He seized her by the shoulders, lowered his head until his hot eyes were level with her flaming dagger ones. “I assure you that whatever I do, I do better than any man in London,” he growled. “It's just too bad that no man liked you enough to do it to you.”

She pressed her palms to his chest and shoved. “You certainly liked me enough yesterday when you did…that…that
thing
!”

“‘Thing'? You mean when I was fondling your breasts and you cried, ‘Don't stop, Randall. It feels so amazing'? Because obviously
that
thing
I did was good enough for you.” He leaned closer, his lips almost on hers, her intoxicating jasmine and orange scent engulfing him. “And, love, that was just the very beginning. You only think you were begging then. I can show you pleasure that your virgin body never knew existed.” His anger rose as did his hard cock. Was it anger? Or frustration because, forget railroads, Parliament, lying bank partners, and political careers, he wanted to do nothing more in his life than to take her on the floor in a frenzy of lovemaking? And he couldn't. He wouldn't. “But you will never know that thing I do,” he hissed. “You will never be my mistress and certainly you will never ever be my wife!” The words cut like a sword blade he had thrust in his
own heart.

“Your wife? Your mistress?” she echoed, her features contorted with horror at the thought of sharing her life with him. “Not while there are perfectly good trains to throw myself in front of! Fine India teas to be doused with hemlock! Or…or…” Her face softened as a slow, devilish smile curved her angelic lips—one worthy of, well, him. “You know, Mr. O'Randy, I think this could be a grand idea,” she said coolly. “But why don't you put on your shabby brown coat. The stockbroker knows that my Irish mother, and my father, for that matter, came from very m
odest means.”

In the hackney drive to the stockbroker, Randall watched Isabella as she stared out the window, refusing to acknowledge his presence. The sunlight brightened the lenses of her spectacles; beneath them, her eyes were large and hurt, but her jaw was clenched and determined. He felt ashamed of his little tantrum in the hall. Why didn't he just tell her the truth, that she was beautiful? He didn't want her to be ravishing or a resplendent vision of paradise. He didn't want everyone to know her secret. Because if they did…

The truth hit him hard in the belly: Someone might take her away just as he needed his comfortable, familiar Isabella.

“Aye, you're a pretty lass,” he said in an obnoxious Irish accent, trying to melt her icy expression.
Look
at
me! Just look at me! My world is falling apart, and if you look at me, you will make it all better.

She didn't respond.

“Mother Mary, it's good that your faithful, devoted cousin Mr. O'Randy is watchin' out fer ya.”

Nothing.

“Are you ever going to talk to your old cousin O'Randy again?”

She closed her eyes and then opened them.

He could always get a rise out of her. Her silence was driving him wild—that and the little piece of blue thread resting on her left breast, the fallen wisp of hair curling along the line of her cheekbone, and her subtle scent of jasmine and orange. What had he done, putting her in Mrs. Perdita's powers?

When the carriage stopped and the driver opened the door, she jumped down without his assistance. She reached into a beaded reticule and gave the driver some coins, ignoring Randall's pleas that he pay the man. By the time Randall's feet hit the street, she was already across the walk by a large, carved-wood door with a brass plaque that read “Harker and Son.”

The driver flipped his shillings in the air, shaking his head as he watched the ruffles on the back of her dress swish with her motion. He released a soft, admiring whistle and winked at Randall. “Pretty little bit of frock, that one.”

“Keep your damn eyes to yourself.” Randall's hands balled into fists. “Or I'll permanently close them.” He hurried to catch up with Isabella before she could reach her young stockbroker and have him fall madly in love with her.

She pulled the doorbell and then turned to Randall. “Just remember, dear cousin O'Randy, the Harkers are like my family. So
I
do the talking this time.”

“Just don't mention your promising openings.”

Scientists had yet to measure something as hot as the glare she gave him.

The door opened, revealing a young man in a neat dark suit with hair that spiked about his part. He emitted a jittery energy as of a nervous rabbit that had just downed four pots of black tea.

Isabella smiled. “Hello, I'm Miss St. Vincent.”

“Miss St. Vincent!” The clerk bowed three times in rapid succession, accidently hitting Isabella's hand. “I'm so sorry!” Terror tightened his features as if he had struck Queen Victoria herself. “I didn't mean… I'm terribly sorry. Terribly sorry.”

“It is well,” she said calmly. “May I come in?”

“Come in? Yes, of course, of course.” The man leaped from the door. “Please, sit down. Shall I produce some tea? No, wine! Our finest red, of course. Will you take biscuits or sandwiches? Do make yourself comfortable on the sofa. Do you require extra pillows? Shall I stoke the fire? Are you cold? Are y
ou warm?”

She blinked, flustered by the attention. “I'm well. I need nothing but to speak with Mr. Harker. I hope I'm not disturbing him.”

“Oh no, you can never disturb him. Never!” The clerk bolted from the room, sprinting down a corridor.

“Aye, they certainly admire you here, dearie,” Mr. Randy said in his Irish brogue. “Regular royalty,
you are.”

She didn't respond but picked up the journal
Funds
and
Figures
Relating
to
the
Commerce
of
Great
Britain
from a side table, sat down on one of the hard chairs, and began studying the pages filled with numbers.

Randall scratched beneath his cravat, feeling edgy in the stockbroker's parlor. There were no books, no knickknacks, just neatly spaced, plain blue chairs. Charts with stock numbers and lines sloping upward, maps of rail lines, and decorative stock certificates hung on the walls, all evenly distributed and aligned. He glanced at Isabella. She thumbed through the journal pages, obviously at ease in the room of ninety-degree angles and hard lines.

“I am profoundly sorry that I must attend to this urgent family matter,” a rich, male voice boomed down the corridor. “A very serious family matter, indeed. May I call tomorrow to finish our discussion of foreign mortgage bonds?”

Two men strode into the room.

Randall snatched up a neatly folded newspaper and concealed his face from a Whig leader who was being escorted by a serious, honey-haired gentleman.

He listened to exchanges of pleasantries, including the opposition leader's praise of the stockbroker's financial prowess. “Good day then, Mr. Harker.” The door closed. Randall tentatively lowered his paper and studied the man who was like family to Isabella.

He was medium height, maybe a year or two older than Isabella. He possessed the soft face of one who enjoyed too much butter and bread, but his jaw was hard. His receding hair was neatly barbered and brushed. His sharp eyes were well lashed and his lips a little on the thin side. Had Randall met the man in a club or boxing match, Randall would have described him as a “fine old chap.” But under the circumstances, he hated him on a primitive, tribal, gut level, especially the way his gaze traveled from Isabella's face to her breasts—those skinny lips of his parting and an awe-like light infusing his face, as if he were gazing upon a Michelangelo or a Da Vinci.

“Miss St. Vincent, you've changed,” he stammered. “Y-you are beautiful.” He inflected the last word like a question. For a moment, he stood, fixed to the spot, staring like a slack-jawed moonling. Then he shook his head as though awakening from a dream—a dream of Isabella's lush bosom. “I meant to say you've always been beautiful, but today you are gorgeous, lovely, ravishing. I grapple with words to express
your radiance.”

Isabella blushed, heightening that radiance.

Gorgeous, lovely, ravishing—
the trite compliments Randall should have said at his apartment when all he could muster was a “well enough.” Randall despised the man even more. It was easier than des
pising himself.

“Aye, she's a vision of luscious heaven, she is,” he said in his Irish brogue, trying to turn her smile in his direction. He received a frown for his efforts. He tried again. “A beauty unrivaled by angels.”

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Harker said, offering up his hand for shaking. “I don't think we are acquainted.”

Randall opened his mouth, ready to elevate his status from watchful Irish cousin to violently protective Irish suitor when Isabella cut in. “Oh, this is my footman, O'Randy.” Her voice was all honey as she lifted an eyebrow over the rim of her glasses. “Remember what I said about not talking.” She plucked off her gloves and slapped him on the chest with them. “And do hold these.”

So, I'm the footman,
he thought, taking the gloves.
That's our game.
He gazed at Harker, who was sneaking furtive glances at Isabella's breasts, and a slow, unamused smile spread over Randall's lips.
Very
well, then.

“Ey, sorry, miss,” he said. “I keep forgetting how you tell me not to ruin the mood by a-talkin.” He nodded at the stockbroker. “I'm just supposed to stay silent and handle her. I'm good at that. That's why she hired me.”

Isabella's hot eyes could have melted huge swaths of Greenland.

The stockbroker wrapped Isabella's hand in the crook of his elbow, steering her toward the corridor.

“I do hope I haven't interrupted you,” she stammered. “If you need to see to a family matter—”

“My dear, you
are
my serious family matter,” Harker replied in a dusky tone better suited for a bedchamber than a place of business. “In fact, my last client can hardly be upset. I made him a great deal of money after you tipped me off about the Wilson Insurance futures. Just brilliant. Have…have you had any other insights?”

Get
your
own
ideas,
Randall wanted to spit as he trailed behind them.
Stop
using
Isabella's.

Harker led them to a paneled office that shared the obsessive symmetrical motif of the front parlor. More rail maps, charts, and stock certificates adorned the walls. On the left, old-fashioned pane windows gave a fine view of the building across the street. Unlike the parlor, this room contained books—all the same height and color, of course—neatly placed in twin bookshelves. A massive oak desk jutted out into the room, decorated by a lonely inkwell. Before the desk stood two parallel leather chairs, both with folded blue blankets draped on the backs. Only the tiny flames, dancing in the grate, escaped the repressive precision of the room. Randall tugged at his cravat; the stark order seemed to be sucking up all the air.

“Ah, you've moved into your father's office.” A sad smile curved Isabella's lips. “I remember this chamber so well,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “I used to play with my dolls under the chairs while our fat
hers talked.”

“I think it's precious how little girls take care of dolls, one day replacing them with their own adorable babies,” Harker said. But if Randall were translating the true meaning it would be:
Let's make our own adorable babies on the desk. I'll just move that inkwell twelve exact inches to the left
.

“Oh no,” she replied, his darling, ravishing lady ever oblivious to subtext. “My favorite doll would own the mill, and all the other dolls would work fo
r her.”

Randall laughed into his balled fist.

Harker shot him a nasty glance. “I think you were supposed to remain silent.” Then he clasped her hands and squeezed. “I know you miss your father terribly.” His eyes grew large and puppylike. “I certainly do. What a brilliant man.”

“I wish he were here,” she whispered, gently trying to extract herself from his grasp. Randall knew both her emotions and the stockbroker were too close f
or comfort.

“Well, I'm here for you now.” The stockbroker released her hands only to wrap his arm around her, taking a little peek at her chest in the process.
Dammit!
Randall didn't miss the rogue's attempts at ye old seduce-her-with-compassion ploy, mentioning her deceased father to break her down and then moving in for the romantic kill. Randall acted quickly.

“Just let me pull up this nice chair fer ya, Miss St. Vincent.” He yanked a chair over and shoved it under her knees. She fell onto the cushion and out of Harker's captivity.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Aye, it's a bit drafty in here,” Randall said. “Why don't I just put this blanket around your shoulders, all snug-like. You know how
we
, er,
you
like to cuddle in a warm blanket.” In a flamboyant motion, he flung the blanket in the air above her, letting it fall over her shoulders. He patted it in place, making sure to hide her bosom from Harker's further perusal. For his efforts, he received a hard, discreet swat.

“Well, I'll just go and a-stoke the fire for you.” Randall swaggered over to the grate and hefted the poker. “Oh, what a nice poker you have here.” He jabbed it in the air, as if he were fencing. “You could really hurt someone with it if you weren't careful.”

“I recall that the lady asked you not to talk.” Harker's voice was hard as flint and deep with authority to intimidate a brazen servant.

What
the
hell
are
you
doing, Randall? Have you lost all reason? This man is not your enemy. Don't you have bigger issues to be concerned about? Such as your career? Your integrity and honor and family name? Just keep quiet.

He hadn't had a drop of alcohol since leaving the house party, but Randall felt drunk. His logical mind was a blurry haze. The only thing he knew with certainty was if Harker snuck another glance at Isabella's body, this red-hot poker was going up the man's arse. And Randall would remember not to say a word in the process.

“What brings you to my office, my dear?” The stockbroker pulled up the chair beside hers, letting his fingers dangle on her knuckles. “You know you can trust me with anything that is worrying you.” The man lowered his voice. “Anything.”

She gazed down, silent for several long seconds, before whispering, “I'm afraid.”

Just
great.
Randall stirred the coals, sending the sparks flying.
Now
she's submissive and shy, so the stockbroker bumhole can be manly and protective.
And why couldn't she ever be submissive and shy around him or tell him when she's afraid?

“I'm afraid that my bank may have purchased fraudulent stock in Merckler Metalworks.” She shifted, causing the blanket to slip off a creamy shoulder. “Can you please tell me more about the duplicate stock numbers that you found?”

Harker shrugged. “My father had recorded the same certificate numbers for a client who bought his shares years ago and has since held them.”

She pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Oh, my darling, don't cry.” The stockbroker moved to take her into his arms. Randall poised
his poker.