“Oh? What did happen to her?”
“I don’t know—no one does. She never resurfaced. But she could have done anything, and…I loved that. I loved the thought of it.” She cast him a small smile. “And all she had to do was give up what she no longer wanted. I thought about her quite often back then. She was so brave—everything I had ever wanted to be. I’m afraid I am not so brave as she was. I, too, could have fled in the middle of the night just as she had. I could have made my own way, forged my own path.” She pressed her fingers to her wrist, where she had once burned herself while laundering linens. “But what would I have done? I can’t even wash the linens properly. So perhaps it’s best I did not flee after all.”
“No one expects you to wash linens, Mouse.”
“Perhaps not, but it does make me feel not quite so useless after all. It need not make sense to you; it must only make sense to me.” She paused near the door once again. “You’re not the demon the Ton would paint you as,” she said softly. “You have kindness in you. But what will you do with it?”
And with those parting words she was gone, and Grey was left alone again with a handful of accumulated debts—and with a sigh of annoyance, hardly able to believe that he had let her sway him, he tore up the two sheets she had indicated and consigned the shreds of them to the fire to be forgotten.
∞∞∞
Grey could not have said when, exactly, the nature of his relationship with Mouse had changed, but he knew that it had, and that seemed an important realization, for reasons that continued to elude him.
Perhaps it was due in part to her charming efforts to get a rise out of him, for despite the assertion she had made of his kindness, still she endeavored to provoke him at any available opportunity simply for the fun of it. He supposed that it was because she had waded through so much of her life attempting never to make waves that she truly had no idea how to cause trouble on purpose. Her efforts were largely juvenile—a few days ago she had painted on the walls of the second floor parlor; huge, sweeping blends of oils streaking across the gold-papered walls.
Unfortunately for her, she was quite a proficient little artist, even if her work was somewhat more abstract than current fashion dictated. He’d promptly ordered massive frames and had them hung around her masterpieces. And then he’d kissed her.
Again. And again. And again. It had become akin to a compulsion, a kind of conditioned response to her petty little taunts and jabs, and if he had been another sort of man he might have been embarrassed by the violent, instantaneous arousal that caught him in its grip with every minor nuisance she cast into his path like a gauntlet slung between them. But he had always enjoyed a challenge, and Mouse was every inch that.
He was no longer certain that her amateurish attempts to annoy him were motivated so much by her promise to make his life miserable rather than her clear enjoyment of kissing. For a woman who had clearly never been kissed until a few weeks ago, she had become truly adept at it.
Last evening, when he had discovered that she had somehow picked the lock on the laundry room door and then bribed a laundry maid into teaching her to iron linens—a tale that she had delighted in recounting, whilst showing off the tiny heat blister forming on her index finger—he hadn’t missed the glow of triumph in her eyes as he’d cornered her in the drawing room.
He’d grown no more adept at predicting her behavior, but she could predict his, and he’d done precisely as she had expected. Her fingertips had caressed his jaw and slid through the hair at the back of his neck, scraping her nails lightly at his nape in a way that had provoked a mad surge of lust.
That such an innocent touch had threatened to bring him to his knees was appalling.
That she had somehow manipulated him into treating her as an honored guest instead of a possession was arguably worse. He couldn’t recall when last he had been moved to make a polite request rather than a demand, but Mouse commanded his respect—she would not be browbeaten into conforming to his expectations, nor did she quail at the first sign of temper.
He suspected his capitulation had had something to do with her judgment of his character—because despite the fact that he had ruined her reputation and placed her in a precarious position, he thought she might have…forgiven him his trespasses against her. Though he had not asked for it, though he had not, in his own estimation, done much to cause her to revise her opinion of him, she had not leapt at the opportunity to blame him for her brothers’ excesses, for her family’s dire financial straits.
As if she, in her boundless generosity, had looked inside him and found some small speck of something honorable. Something worthy of admiration. Something no one else before her had bothered to seek.
And now a small part of him stretched toward that good opinion, longing to live up to it, like a neglected vine reaching for the sunshine of her praise, her approval.
Somehow, in some way, Mouse had become important for reasons beyond revenge. She had begun to matter to him, and it was both new and uncomfortable. He enjoyed their verbal sparring matches over dinner, enjoyed the faint strains of music from the pianoforte that trickled through his office door and distracted him from his work, enjoyed her company for long hours after dinner far more than he had either expected or wanted.
But he did not enjoy enjoying these things. It was as if her very presence had warped something within his mind, as though she had thrown a wrench into the analytical workings of his brain until the cogs that had once spun so effortlessly had been gummed up by the silk of her voice, lulling him into a pleasant stream of conversation and coaxing him away from his work, his purpose.
He did not like that he had grown accustomed to her wandering about his house, that rather than feeling trapped by her presence, he had learned instead to anticipate her comings and goings—and to miss her company when she was absent. She had become an intrinsic part of his household, and he felt the lack of her when she was gone, and could not like it.
It was unpleasant and worrisome and vexing—all things he had neither the time nor the inclination to muddle through.
He was going to have to seduce her in earnest. It was the only possible cure for what ailed him. Once his curiosity had been satisfied, his interest would naturally wane, and he could restore himself to normality once more.
Because he was swiftly becoming someone he did not recognize. It was an insidious sort of shift, a quarter of an inch at a time. Until he had become the sort of man who enjoyed sitting in the drawing room with Mouse of an evening more than managing his business affairs. Until he had become the kind of man who actively enjoyed the company of a woman outside of a bedchamber, hanging on her words like they contained a strange sort of magic that transfixed him, whether she prattled on about shopping or books or music—anything at all, so long as it was her voice trickling into his ears.
Until his housekeeper, Mrs. Hathaway, made off-handed remarks that for the first time since she’d been in his employ, the household had not run out of spoons. Until Grey had realized that he’d abandoned his peculiar habit, and those silver spoons had stayed out of his hands, out of his pockets, and remained nestled in their drawers where they belonged.
He had underestimated Mouse, underestimated the danger she presented. And while he could afford a great many things, what he could not afford was to lose his peace of mind, his sense of self. So he would do the sensible thing—seduce the chit in truth, then shunt her off to a residence of her own once the bloom had faded from the rose. It was the reasonable course of action. A cold, calculated decision to remind himself of who he was, who he was not, and who he would never be.
But he found himself fearful that shoving aside the inconvenient shrilling of a newfound conscience and ignoring that splinter of what might have been a soul that desired Mouse’s good opinion and—God forbid— her affection would prove to be his greatest challenge yet.
Rule four, he told himself. Don’t get attached.
∞∞∞
There was s
omething remarkably liberating about being a woman of ill repute, Serena mused as she held herself perfectly still, lest the seamstress pinning the hem of her gown miss her mark and stick her instead. It had been a fairly recent revelation—there were no social calls to make, no correspondence to answer, no engagements to attend. It was not that she had particularly disliked those things. It was simply that she had never before realized how very restricted her life had once been, how regimented. How her every action had been dictated by the approval of her father, her peers. Even something so simple as the subjects of the watercolors she had painted—lilies, roses—had been constrained to those things which were acceptable for a lady.
She had been seeking a kind of approval which would never have come, and, having surrendered that desire at last, she felt as if a great weight had been dropped from her shoulders.
She could remove her hat in the sun if she so chose and let freckles break out across the bridge of her nose. She could wear scarlet, violet, and emerald instead of those insipid pastel shades that washed her out and made her look positively ghostly. She could take off her shoes and walk barefooted in the grass, or hike up her skirts and run.
She could go out in public—to the seamstress, the bookshop, anywhere she pleased—and not once wonder what people might be whispering behind their hands. It had simply ceased to matter, and she found herself the better for it.
She wasn’t certain what it said of her that she no longer missed those things that she had lost, but what she had gained satisfied her in a way she had never expected. Having broken from the confining mold of the lady she had once tried so hard to be, she found she did not wish to return to it.
Even the condemnation of those that had once been her friends had failed to quell her current contentment. Initially she had missed the companionship, but lately it had occurred to her how very superficial her friendships had been. How very superficial she had been. It had not been a comfortable thing to realize that she had learned more about herself in the past weeks than she had in the whole of her life, or that she had shared more of herself with Grey than she had with ladies she had known since childhood. There were simply things one did not speak of in polite company—and the ladies she had known were, invariably, polite.
But Grey was not, and there was no limit to the sort of conversation they might engage in, no subject forbidden. It was thrilling, exciting—to be free to speak as she pleased, knowing no one would censure her for it. To talk of things like money and politics and commerce; all things that ladies were supposed to pretend had never once crossed their minds.
Grey had never once treated her inquiries as if they were to be disdained. He explained to her things like interest and rents, innovation and investments. He showed her proposals for potential investment opportunities compiled in their portfolios filled with papers and contracts, expounded upon the things that might make one of them a worthy investment, and another a poor one. His interest in innovation was particularly compelling; he spoke of strides made in engineering, in science and medicine, with such enthusiasm that she had felt as if he had peeled back the veil on the future and allowed her a peek beyond it, to see what lay in store.
But always he treated her as if she had a brain in her head, and not merely a mysterious swirling void labeled female. As if he was utterly unbothered by her interest in things beyond typically feminine pursuits.
Almost like a friend—but not quite that, either.
Sarah, who had accompanied Serena on her trip to the dress shop, heaved a great sigh. “I don’t see the point in this. His lordship was right; yellow doesn’t suit you.”
“I know,” Serena replied. “That is the point.” Because he had made good on his threat and had her yellow gown torn up for dust rags—an offense which she had determined deserved a bit of retaliatory shopping. Seven gowns, all in varying shades of yellow, were having their final alterations made and would be delivered within the week. It had become a sort of game between them, trading annoyances.
And kisses. A little shiver slipped down Serena’s spine, and the seamstress mumbled, “Please stand still, my lady,” around a mouthful of pins.
“I still think it’s foolish,” Sarah said. “He’ll get rid of the lot of them.”
“Well, not all at once, surely,” Serena replied. “He won’t expect seven of them.”
“Who would?” Sarah snorted, rolling her eyes. “Daft, as I said.”
At last the seamstress climbed to her feet and spat the rest of the pins into her palm. “All finished, my lady. What do you think?”
Serena turned toward the mirror, admiring the cut of the gown, if not the color. “Sarah?” she asked.
“It makes you look sallow,” Sarah offered. “A bit sickly, I’d say.”
“Good,” Serena returned cheerfully. “He’ll loathe it.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Sarah began to pull free the buttons to help Serena change back into the gown she had arrived to the shop in, shaking her head in consternation. “Such a waste,” she chided. “Why, when I was at Mrs. Selkirk’s—”
“Mrs. Selkirk’s?” Serena interjected as she wiggled free of the gown. “The finishing school?”
Sarah handed off the yellow gown to the seamstress, who carried it away. “Yes, the finishing school—I told you I had once been a laundry maid.” Casting the discarded gown over Serena’s head, she twitched the skirts down and tugged the bodice into place.
Stifling a wince, Serena threaded her arms through the sleeves of her gown. “There must have been a great deal of it.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah laughed. “Each girl had only three gowns. And they were grateful for that much, I assure you.” She fastened buttons with a speed and skill that Serena imagined had been perfected years ago. “So you can understand why seven gowns—seven disposable gowns—seems a trifle excessive.”
“I maintain that it is in the service of the greater good,” Serena said.
“Oh, yes. Irritating his lordship—though God knows why you’d want to. One of these days his patience will run thin,” Sarah said firmly. “And aren’t there more effective ways to manage such a thing if that’s what you’re seeking? It’s a week ago now that we finished up your little project. Certainly that would be more than enough.”
Likely, but for all the effort they had both poured into the embroidery, the hours they had slaved over needle and thread, Serena had begun to have a few misgivings about it. It had been cathartic when she had started the process, a way of venting her frustrations—but just lately her inclinations had changed, and she found herself reluctant to wield that particular weapon. What had once been a war had shifted to a teasing battle of wits and will, and she could not say that she wished to upset the balance of their playful feud.
If Grey ascribed to it the animosity she had once held for him, their comfortable bickering, the long hours they spent together in conversation—it would all draw to a close. And she did so enjoy it. How empty her life would become if Grey withdrew his companionship, his company—his kisses.
“Well,” she hedged, uncomfortably aware of just how much time Sarah, too, had spent with her in the creation of what she had once considered their masterpiece, “there’s not been an opportunity for it, has there?”
“I suppose not,” Sarah allowed, and she fussed with Serena’s hair, pinning a loose lock back into place. “Never you fear. We’ll find one eventually.”
Chapter Fifteen
A week later, Grey was absently listening to Mouse play the pianoforte and devising a plan for the destruction of the horrid yellow gown she’d appeared in at dinner—which mostly involved tearing it straight from her body—when Simpson appeared in the doorway.
“Just arrived for you, sir,” he said, offering a note, which Grey rose from his seat on the sofa to take.
Mouse’s fingers stilled on the keys, and she half-turned, brows lifted in inquiry as the piece she had been playing faded into silence. A lock of hair curled against her throat, like a b
it of moonlight had made itself a nest there.
It took more effort than Grey would have cared to admit to pull his gaze from her, to focus instead upon the content of the note in his hands. He scanned the lines contained within, his jaw tightening in irritation.
“What is it?” Mouse asked, a frown settling over her features as his eyes flitted back to her briefly and away again.
“A disturbance at one of my clubs,” he said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. “I’ve got to go. Ready the carriage, Simpson.”
Mouse slid off the bench and followed him into the foyer. “Do you frequently handle such disturbances personally?” she asked. “I had thought your involvement was strictly financial.”
“It is. Generally.” Except in this particular case. Damn. And it had promised to be such an agreeable evening. He’d long since discarded his cravat and coat—he’d have to retrieve them from his room.
“May I accompany you?” she asked.
He reeled back in surprise. “No, Mouse—this is a business matter, not a pleasant diversion.”
Her lips pursed in disapproval, a frown settling between her brows. “You said you would take me.”
“Not to this club. Good lord, Mouse, even I have standards.” He blew out an aggravated breath. “It’s not one of the decent ones,” he said. “It’s rough and crude, and I’d never shove a lady into the midst of that lot.” Why he was moved to explain himself, he did not know—but he had long ceased expecting Mouse to obey him out of hand.
For some unknowable reason, that did nothing to quell her interest. “Still, I would like to go,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “What is the nature of the disturbance? Is it dangerous?”
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