Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I do, and no pun intended.” He was practically selling himself to secure it anyway, what with his engagement to the man’s daughter. “With our impending familial connections and the promise of a ripe turnaround on his investment, I believe he’ll see the wisdom of such a move. We’ll be a damn sight better off than we are now. Seeing this through to the end is going to require patience, vision, hard work, and money. But it’ll be worth it.”

  Jesse raised his glass to him, shaking his head. “I must say, old friend, that no one else could do what you’ve done thus far. If there is anyone who can light up this dark world of ours, it’s you.”

  Levi raised his glass right back. “Thank you for your friendship. It means a hell of a lot to me. As for the flattery—”

  “There can be no flattery in truth,” Jesse interrupted, his tone brooking no opposition. “I admire you, Levi. You’ve overcome a great deal to get to where you are.”

  He had, but he didn’t like to speak or think of it. The past was something he didn’t wish to dwell on. It was a closed door to him in every way that it could be. “We both have. War is hell on earth.”

  His friend met his gaze, his expression grave. “You know as well as I that I’m not merely talking about the war.”

  * * *

  It was very late, after midnight, but Helen didn’t give a fidget for that.

  She hadn’t seen Mr. Storm in two straight days. According to belowstairs gossip wrangled from her lady’s maid, he had arrived very late, gone straight to his chamber, and emerged before dawn to return to his offices each day. It had occurred to her that he might have been intentionally avoiding her. Perhaps he’d thought better of his offer all while she’d been working hard to pen an article that would convince him of the importance of her cause.

  And work hard on the article, she had. She’d spent all her waking hours crafting her notes into a coherent piece that represented the plight of the women and girls she’d met both at the brothel she’d visited and at the overcrowded House of Rest that Gussie had formed. Thankfully, word had arrived from Gussie that Maeve had been spirited from Madame Violette’s house of ill fame as promised, giving Helen at least a small measure of relief to know the poor girl was safe at last.

  But for every one girl like Maeve saved in London, there were at least one hundred more waiting for a rescue that would never come. With one last, deep breath to calm herself, Helen peeked out into the darkened hallway beyond her chamber door. She was about to do something quite scandalous. Something she knew she shouldn’t do. Something very much like sneaking into a brothel in the East End.

  This time, there would be no brawny footmen for protection and no calming presence of her friend to ease her worried mind that nothing could go wrong. It didn’t matter. In for a penny, in for a pound. Clutching the draft of her article tightly in her ink-stained fingers, she slipped into the hall. The gaslights had gone down for the evening, enveloping the space in a murky stillness that would have been impossible to navigate without the presence of a window at the east end. There, a blessed amount of moonlight sifted into the corridor to produce enough light for her to find her way to the chamber she sought.

  If she had been nervous closeted inside Mr. Storm’s office, she didn’t dare to imagine how it would feel to be inside his bedchamber. Alone. With no one in the world the wiser and no one but she and that arrogant, handsome man. If the thought produced a dizzying sense of warmth washing over her, she dismissed it as over-wrought nerves. Being alone with Mr. Storm wouldn’t have any effect upon her. Her goal was merely an audience with him, a means of delivering her article.

  Time was of the essence, after all.

  She stopped before his door. A sliver of light glowed beneath it, confirming his presence. Good. He was here, at last. Her heart beat much too fast. Without further thought or the opportunity for rational Helen to get the better of her, she knocked quickly and quietly upon the door.

  It opened with almost alarming speed, as if he had either just entered or was himself about to leave. He loomed over her, an imposing presence. The light at his back rendered it difficult indeed to see his face. But she’d recognize his form anywhere. Forbidding, tall, and lean with a barely leashed strength.

  He didn’t say a word. If he was surprised by her presence at his bedchamber door in the midst of the night, completely alone, he didn’t let on. He merely grabbed her elbow in that commanding way of his, and pulled her over the threshold. The door closed with a hushed snick at her back.

  His gaze nearly took the breath from her lungs. It was direct and laden with something dangerously primal. He wore only shirtsleeves and trousers, and she had the impression that he had been in the midst of disrobing himself upon her knock. Had he no valet? She hadn’t thought of the complication a servant might bring, but a thorough inspection of the chamber behind him now revealed no one.

  Thank heavens.

  “Lady Helen.” His tone was almost harsh. He released her elbow and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You look as grim as a temperance harpy attending the funeral of a drunkard.”

  His bald pronouncement nearly wrung a startled laugh from her. He was bold and improper and altogether rude. She had dressed with great care for this visit, wearing a simple, black gown buttoned to the neck. If she appeared mournful, it was only because she’d attempted to retain as much propriety as she possibly could while visiting his chamber at midnight.

  “I object to your use of the term ‘harpy,’ Mr. Storm,” she told him in the most august tone she could manage.

  “Objection duly noted.” He grinned, and the effect was devastating. His dimples were once more on full display. “Would you care to enlighten me as to why you’re gracing my chamber wearing funeral weeds and ink stains?”

  Drat him, that grin had her at sixes and sevens. Why did he have to be so fine-looking and so infuriating at the same time? “I’m not wearing funeral weeds, though I’ll own the ink stains.” She thrust her article toward him with a lack of grace she inwardly cursed. “I’ve finished my article, sir.”

  “Ah.” He accepted the neatly penned sheets she proffered. “That was rather a quick turnabout, wasn’t it? I reckon I should have known. You’re as determined as a terrier when there’s something you’re after, aren’t you?”

  Helen frowned at him. “I’m not sure I care for your similes this evening, Mr. Storm.”

  His lips twitched in what she supposed might be suppressed mirth. “I’m sure you don’t, Lady Helen.” He glanced down at the article she’d given him, then back up at her, his gaze too perceptive for her liking. “Tell me, do you make a habit of invading the bedchambers of all Jesse’s guests, or is the privilege mine alone?”

  His words echoed her own when she had asked him about throwing ladies over his shoulder. Unless she was mistaken, he enjoyed this turning of the tables. Of course he felt the need to bring attention to the unseemliness of her presence here, in a space that was undeniably his. She didn’t belong in his chamber and she knew it. But somehow, she couldn’t force herself to beat the hasty path of retreat she’d warned herself she must.

  She met his gaze boldly, never one to back down from a challenge, verbal or otherwise. “Can it be deemed an invasion when it was you who forced me inside?” Helen couldn’t quite contain her pleased smile at her clever rout. After all, it was he who had hauled her into his chamber. She had very much intended to stay on the safe side of their societal line of demarcation. Truly, she had.

  He let out a short bark of appreciative laughter. “Ever a worthy opponent, Lady Helen. But I merely wished to protect your reputation by removing you from eye and earshot of our hosts and their servants. Besides, Jesse will flay my hide if he ever gets wind of the improper nature of this meeting.”

  “There is nothing whatsoever improper about this meeting,” she objected. Was she not properly buttoned up, severely dressed, and standing a full two steps away from him?

  Rational Helen reminded her that there was no
thing more improper than being so near to a man who presented such a wrong-headed lure for her. After all, she had wanted him to kiss her in the library. She had spent time, much to her chagrin, imagining what that sinful mouth of his might do to her. But that had been foolish Helen, and there was far too much at stake to allow that Helen to take charge of her mind just now.

  “My lady, surely you realize there is nothing proper about you in my chamber at this time of night.” His tone was intimate and warm, sliding over her with the effect of a caress.

  She swallowed. Oh dear. His bright-blue gaze traveled to her lips, then down to the line of buttons at her throat, then back to meet hers. There was no mistaking the frank perusal. He felt the sparks between them the same way she did, roaring to life like his electricity and every bit as capable of burning hot.

  “Pray forgive me for importuning you, Mr. Storm,” she said at last, forcing herself to be polite. Rational. Cool. To flee his chamber while a modicum of her good intentions remained intact. “I merely wished to deliver the article as expediently as possible, and since you’ve been absent from breakfast these last few days, I deemed this the best way. Good night, sir.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  He didn’t touch her this time, but it didn’t matter. She stopped, halfway to the safety waiting on the other side of his chamber door. It wasn’t that she feared him or the situation. Rather, she feared herself. She feared that the convictions she’d lived with for most of her adult life were wrong and that perhaps she wasn’t destined to be chaste forever. He was temptation indeed.

  She spun back around, drinking in the sight of him as she had not allowed herself to do before. His white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a tantalizing swath of his chest, and rolled up to his elbows. His feet were bare, his trousers hugging his long legs to perfection. He very much looked the part of the brash American businessman she’d come to know, the man who had thrown her over his shoulder rather than escort her from his building, who spoke bluntly and had a penchant for arrogance and who touched her with the familiarity of a lover without ever having kissed her.

  But he also looked a bit wild, and it was that wildness that called to some primitive, wicked being within her. He was the only man who had ever tempted her to throw everything to the wind—her reputation, her resolution to never again allow a man to lead her astray. Yes, he was dangerous to her in every sense of the word. And it was a danger that made her pulse quicken and her body go hot.

  The silence between them was charged with all that remained unspoken.

  “Stay, Lady Helen,” he said at last.

  She stared, wondering if he was suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. Her wide eyes flew to the perfectly made bed at the far end of the room, then back to him again. Surely not. Surely he couldn’t mean…

  He flashed her a wry smile. “You’ve come this far. You may as well remain while I read your article.” He paused. “If you choose, of course.”

  If she chose.

  He had very carefully and cleverly made the decision hers. And he was right. She had come this far. She’d worked hard to write the words in his hands. She’d put everything at risk to visit a house of ill fame and then steal her way to his chamber after midnight. What could be the harm in lingering long enough to hear his decision?

  “Very well,” she decided before rational Helen could intervene. “I’m eager to hear what you think of it.”

  Of course, that wasn’t the only reason for her to remain here where she’d already established she most certainly ought not to be, but she didn’t dare dwell on that. Instead, she followed him deeper into the chamber to a small seating area arranged by the gaslights. Mr. Storm saw that she was seated before sinking into a chair at her side. His proximity to her was not lost upon her. His trousers brushed her black skirts.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t much to offer as a host, but there is a tray Mrs. Whitney had sent up for me if you’re hungry. There’s wine, hothouse fruits, and I believe some roasted chicken that’s long grown cold.” He gestured toward a low Louis Quinze table laden with not only the tray but also a neat stack of correspondence and an odd assortment of objects that appeared to be in various states of dissection. She recognized a dismantled pocket watch and mantle clock amidst various parts and pieces.

  “Thank you, but no,” she declined his offer, though the wine and fruits did hold some appeal. She couldn’t shake the impression that indulging in anything, even something as innocent as a strawberry, would weaken her resolve to stay true to her purpose.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a glass of wine, my lady? You seem a bit on edge.”

  She looked back to him, startled. How was he so perceptive? “I’m perfectly fine,” she lied. In truth, she questioned the wisdom of her actions. Instead of leaving without anything untoward having occurred, she had lingered, going deeper into the lion’s den. Now, she sat at his side, so near to Mr. Storm that his delightfully masculine scent proved most distracting.

  “As you wish.” His tone made it clear he begged to differ, that he could read her as easily as the article he held in his hands. But he kept his silence and mercifully turned his attention to her words instead.

  An indeterminate amount of time passed as she waited while he read. Not a hint of emotion showed on his countenance any time she stole a peek at him. She clasped her hands nervously in her lap and tried not to squirm too much. From time to time, she glanced at the items he had taken apart and wondered if he would be able to put them back together the way they had been. Something told her that he would. Those long fingers of his would be precise, agile as his mind.

  Finally, just when she thought she could stand the suspense no longer, he broke the deafening silence.

  “Lady Helen, you know very well that I cannot publish this.”

  Chapter 5

  That hadn’t been precisely what she wanted to hear.

  Of course she knew he wouldn’t publish the awful truths she’d exposed in the piece. Well, she supposed she ought to know that, but part of her had still hoped that he might surprise her and prove open-minded enough to print a subject that went far beyond the bounds of polite society.

  She cared about the women she’d met. She cared about their plight, about the hopeless situations in which they’d found themselves ensnared. Who else could allow their voices to be heard? Mr. Storm possessed such power. He could print whatever he saw fit. He had untold wealth at his fingertips if Bella was to be believed, wealth not even she could imagine, having grown up in a well-heeled aristocratic family, the daughter of the Earl of Northcote.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded, quite as though he were a forbidding headmaster and she a recalcitrant pupil. The teasing, intimate demeanor of earlier was gone.

  She met his stern gaze unflinchingly, even if she wished he weren’t quite so magnificent and austere. “It is a story that needs telling, Mr. Storm.”

  He inclined his head. “Perhaps so, but the telling will have to be done by someone else at a journal other than mine. There are obscenity laws in this land of which you must surely be aware. I’m not certain if you’re mad or if you’ve got the daring of a corps of soldiers facing a wall of enemy cannon.”

  Helen almost smiled at that. Almost. She wasn’t mad nor was she particularly brave. She never had been. Tia was the brave sister, beautiful and bold. But Helen was determined to do something with her life beyond wearing out the soles of her shoes at society balls. “To be clear, sir, I was aware of the reception my piece would receive, and I am also acquainted with the Obscene Publications Act.”

  “And yet you wrote it anyway.” His gaze was searching. “Good God, woman, I’m not sure which alarms me more, the thought that you endangered yourself by mingling in the unsavory neighborhoods haunted by these creatures or the thought that you enjoy goading me to this extent.”

  His blustering did indeed win a smile from her this time. Mayhap he did care for her, just a smidg
eon. “Truly, Mr. Storm, your concern for my well-being is most appreciated. However, I assure you that I didn’t pen this article with the sole intent of goading you, as you put it.”

  “Indeed?” He had risen from his chair and fairly towered over her before turning to pace the length of the chamber.

  Helen stood too, just to keep them on even ground, trailing after him at a safe distance. “These creatures, as you call them, are women. They are flesh and blood just like you and me, though I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about the sort of penury and danger they encounter every day. I suppose you never look down from your tower of wealth and privilege and remember the little creatures like Susanna and Maeve.”

  “Unlike you, I wasn’t born to wealth and privilege, my lady.” He circled the room, stalking her like a caged tiger from a menagerie. “Everything I have was earned. By me. By my hard work. By my determination. I spent many a night on the street with nothing but a hungry belly and a head full of dreams.”

  She found that difficult indeed to believe. “Spare me your sermons, sir. What do you know of the kinds of women I’m trying to help?”

  “My mother was a whore,” he bit out, shocking her as much with the revelation as with the barely veiled anger in his voice.

  Helen stared at him. Perhaps that was the source of the wildness she had sensed. He was every bit the elegant gentleman accustomed to his deep purses and the finer things. But he was more than that. Just beneath his perfect veneer was a history with all its thorns and scars, unknown by anyone who looked upon him.

  Somehow, she thought she understood him, at least in a small sense, for the very first time. She laid a hand upon his bare forearm. “I’m sorry, Mr. Storm. I did not know.”

  “I don’t require your pity, my lady.” His tone, like his countenance, was grim. “I could buy and sell all the pity in the world and it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing about who I am or where I’ve come from.”