No matter how easy it would be to close the distance, to take her in his arms, to feel her sink into his hold. He’d kiss her neck and—
“The flowers,” he said abruptly, motioning across his neck. “Why not jewels?”
She frowned. “The flowers?”
“You wear flowers more than you wear jewels. It’s unusual for a woman of your rank.”
“I-I suppose you think I should be dripping in gems.”
“I don’t think anything. I was just curious.”
She gave a gentle smile and fingered the necklace. “It’s a habit.”
“Wearing flowers is a habit?”
“It started when I was deaf. My mother taught me the language of flowers when I was five and it seemed the perfect way to communicate how I was feeling when I struggled to express it verbally. So I started plucking flowers from the garden.” Her smile widened. “The gardener was not impressed so my mother had pieces of jewelry or little hat pins and various other things made into flowers for me.” She stopped touching the necklace and let her hand drop to her side. “I know Chastity fears I am...repressed in some way due to it.” Her shoulders lifted and dropped. “Perhaps I am.”
Well, now he wished he had not said a word. Blake found the sudden urge to do anything to bring a smile back to her lips. To make her happier than she’d ever been before. To remove any of that doubt lingering in her mind. He’d do anything to have that happen.
He moved closer, away from the closed curtains to the door, and stopped a pace away from her. He touched the necklace, following the intricate lines. “Did you mother have this one made?”
She nodded.
“I imagine it helps you feel closer to her too.”
She nodded again.
“This world is not always kind. I see no harm in such a habit if it brings comfort.”
“I doubt you need comfort.”
He hesitated, then pressed a hand into his jacket pocket. She peered at his closed fist and he turned it toward the thin sliver of light seeping through the curtain and opened his fingers. He almost snapped his fingers shut when he saw it as she would—nothing more than a tiny, worn scrap of wood.
Demeter extended a hand and ran a finger over it. “What is it?”
Swallowing hard, he fought the urge to shove it back into his pocket. “I made it. When I was about five or six, I think. It was a sort of doll—a friend if you will.”
Her gaze flicked up to his. “Why would you need a friend? Blake, you are never friendless.”
“Well, there you are wrong.” He closed his hand and returned the wood to his pocket. He’d already said too much.
“We are friends, are we not?” she said softly. “At least—”
“Yes, we are friends,” he replied swiftly, because they were.
He didn’t know how or when but they had become friends. A strange first for him, for certain. Though he’d spent much of his adult life with women, he’d never had one as a friend. Demeter already knew more about him than even Ashford so he was certain that had to count as friendship.
Friends did not want to kiss one another, though.
“I am glad because—”
He moved quickly because she was too pretty, too sweet, and he didn’t want to think on it anymore. Curving a hand around her neck, he claimed her mouth. She gasped and gripped his arms, allowing him to press the kiss deeper. A tiny, soft moan escaped her and he responded with his own groan. No wonder he hadn’t been able to resist. Her mouth seemed shaped for him, her taste called to him. Hundreds if not thousands of kisses and none had ever felt like this.
None had left his limbs feeling liquid, his heart roaring as though he’d won a great victory, his blood raging through his body.
Her tongue twined with his and he gripped her tight, aware how fragile she was, aware of how much trust she placed in him. He moved his other hand to her waist and felt the light boning of her corset through the silk. He gripped there, tugging on the fabric as if it could somehow tether him to her.
He broke away when he heard a voice. A low, male voice and footsteps. For several moments, he pressed his forehead to hers and heard her ragged breaths matching his.
Then he pressed a kiss to her nose. “We need to be away from here, sweeting,” he whispered. “You need to be away from me.”
“Yes.” Her grip on his arms remained and he didn’t move.
The voice returned and Blake realized it was someone speaking to himself. And that someone was his cousin.
Demeter’s eyes widened when the door handle rattled. Foster was going to discover them.
Chapter Eighteen
Demeter shoved Blake back, twisted and pulled open the door before Foster could enter the room. The door shielded Blake from view but Foster stilled upon seeing her.
“Lady Demeter! What are you...that is...”
She smiled swiftly, stepping directly in front of him and effectively forcing him back from the door. “I was, um, l-looking for you.” She glanced at her feet, hoping he would mistake her action for bashfulness and not for her trying to hide her useless lie.
She glanced under her lashes to see his lips press briefly together before that bashful smile slid back into place.
“I-I-I saw you come up here,” she said swiftly, “and I had thought you had come into this room but of course I was wrong.”
Her smile felt tremulous but she hoped it was charming enough that he could not tell. Oh, how she wished she was like Chastity or Cassie, who would have blinded him with their charms in but a moment.
“And what was it you wanted from me, my lady?”
She swallowed. Think! “The painting!”
“The painting?”
“I had heard you have a Boucher,” she replied on an exhale. “It is one of my favorites and I wished to view it but I was not certain where it was.”
“Ah.” Mr. Foster’s expression relaxed. “My mother had excellent taste. It is practically priceless you know.”
The thudding in her chest slowed. But of course Mr. Foster could be relied upon to wish to show off his new wealth. He wouldn’t know that her father had many, many priceless paintings, some stored away in houses they rarely visited.
“Will you show it to me?” she asked sweetly.
Mr. Foster glanced around. “Perhaps you should fetch your aunt or one of your sisters,” he suggested.
“Oh no.” She shook her head. If she ran off to get an escort, he might discover Blake. She couldn’t risk that.
His eyes widened.
“They are having far too much fun and we shall be but a moment, I am certain. Will you not show me the painting...alone?”
Sweat sprung up on his upper lip. Demeter could not fathom why. She’d seen his careful act. Surely such a man would not be put into a sweat by her mild attentions?
He nodded vigorously. “Of course. We shall be but a moment, as you say.”
He motioned down the long hallway, lined with many paintings and several small tables topped with plants and vases. The decor was a little darker and older than Demeter liked but Blake’s aunt had been of a different generation so it no doubt still matched her tastes. How long would it be before Mr. Foster changed it all, she wondered, and how would Blake feel about that? It was clear he cared deeply for his aunt.
“You actually walked past it.” He motioned to the painting of a nude woman, lounging upon a chaise, hung from the picture rail in a huge, gilded frame.
“Oh, how silly of me.” She pressed a hand to her chest and stopped in front of the painting. “I do so love Boucher.” It was a lie. She found his taste for naked women sprawled in awkward positions off putting. Why had the name sprung to her mind?
The memory of a very recent kiss overwhelmed her senses, and Demeter forced it away. She had to concentrate.
“I would have thought you’d noticed it,” he commented. “It is in quite a prominent position.”
She pressed her lips together. The painting hung near the top of
the stairs, where most eyes would fall upon it. “I was so intent on following after you.” She twisted her head and found his gaze locked upon her. Did he believe her lie? Goodness, if she was listening to such tripe, she certainly would not.
But his gaze remained fixed upon her, not with doubt, but with something else. It was as though his eyes had lit from the inside and the sweat upon his lip glinted in the lamplight.
He leaned in slowly. So slowly that it gave her enough time to recognize what flickered in his gaze.
Desire.
She darted back swiftly and voices echoed at the bottom of the stairs, allowing her to draw in a deep breath.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “You should not be alone up here, my lady. Please believe me when I say I am not the sort of man who spends time with ladies unescorted and you really are...” he motioned over her, “so lovely. I would never do something to...upset you.”
She considered all the times she’d been alone at balls when any man could have come upon her and most certainly did not and then all the times she’d been with Blake. She couldn’t fathom quite what Mr. Foster thought of her but he was wrong, whatever his impression was.
“Why do you not head down?” she suggested. “I am certain your guests are missing you.”
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously, his throat bobbing. “Yes, indeed. I do hope we shall have a chance to talk again. In company of course.”
She offered a bright smile. “But of course.”
“Until then, my lady.” He dropped into a bow and hastened down the stairs.
Scowling, she watched him scurry away then darted back into the shadows when two ladies walked past the bottom of the steps. She could not fathom that man. Could he sweat on command? Had he really desired her? Or was it all part of his act?
Whatever it was, it left her feeling nauseated. She’d seen desire in Blake’s eyes, even if it was momentary and most likely entirely rash, and it had been different to what she’d seen in Mr. Foster’s.
That man was dangerous, she concluded. More dangerous than either of them had suspected.
***
When Blake stepped into Pidgeon’s and his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the large open space, he shook his head to himself. Anyone who was acquainted with Demeter would be hard-pressed to imagine her even setting a toe in here. She’d surely run away, her eyes wide, her limbs trembling.
But they did not know her like he did.
He glanced toward the table he’d seen her playing at. It felt like an eternity ago now.
The early hour meant only the desperate and the eager occupied the tables. He had little idea if Harriet Carr would be here but he’d awoken with a desperate need to do something about this damned situation with his cousin. When he should have been investigating him, he’d been, well, rather occupied with Demeter. He’d spent far too much time just talking with the woman.
And thinking of her.
Oh yes. And kissing her too.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, clasped his hat in one hand and veered between the tables. The air was scented with herbs and stale sweat. The herbs were most likely used to conceal the stench of bodies but it couldn’t hide the scent of desperation. At least two of the men at the card tables were likely perspiring through their shirts. Whatever had brought them here, they were never going to make their fortune.
He smirked to himself. Demeter would, of course, but Demeter was a rarity—in so many ways.
A young man swept splinters of wood from the floor—the remnants of a chair by the looks of it—and Blake had to wonder why the sweet Demeter had chosen this place of all places to play. There were gaming hells with better reputations where fights did not break out on a regular basis. Of course, she did not seem to do anything the easy way. She was all determination, wrapped up in a skinny bundle of long, luxurious hair and far too kissable lips. Anyone who thought she could not hold her own here did not know her.
Damn it. Now was not the time. He didn’t need to be thinking of the kiss nor how he’d come to know her far too intimately for his liking and yet not nearly intimately enough.
He tapped the man on the shoulder. He had no time to waste. He’d glimpsed his cousin’s face through the crack in the door last night. He’d seen how his gaze had lingered on Demeter. Oh, he’d hidden it under a guise of gentlemanliness but Blake recognized such a look. There had been no suspicion, as Blake had feared—oh no, there was only desire.
And Demeter, the bloody woman, responded with all the faux charm and innocence of a debutante looking to hook a marriage proposal, though he doubted she had any idea what her words could do to a man. What was she thinking, dragging Foster to look at a nude painting? Alone?
“What do you want?” The lanky young man turned with a roll of his eyes, set the broom down to lean against it, and ran his gaze wearily up Blake. It seemed not even his rather well-known face nor his expensive clothing impressed the man who could be no more than twenty but had apparently seen everything in this place.
“Is Harriet here by any chance?”
He glanced upward, toward the balcony that ran the width and breadth of the building, leading to the upper rooms. “Up there.”
“Any room in particular?”
The man shrugged, his bony shoulders stark against a thin shirt that had been darned in both elbows. “Does it matter?”
“I’m looking specifically for Harriet.”
“Try the third one along.”
Before Blake could thank him, the man went back to his sweeping. It seemed it wasn’t just Demeter who did not care for his opinion one jot. Just the thought of his cousin staring at her so made his shoulders tense. The more he observed Foster, the more he was convinced there was something not right about the whole situation—and Foster himself. He was beginning to intensely regret ever getting Demeter involved in this. A man who could feign such a bumbling act had to be dangerous, surely?
With any luck, Harriet might have more information on the men his cousin had been seen with. Or Demeter had been right and she’d merely wanted coin from him. Either way, he’d find out for certain and figure out his next step. This investigation could be neglected no longer.
He took the steps two at a time and rapped on the door with his knuckles. He heard footsteps but she took a while to answer the door. She grinned upon seeing him so he had to conclude she either thought him an easy mark for more money or had indeed given him real information.
“Changed your mind?” She gestured him inside the room.
He walked past her, the scent of lavender surrounding him and making his temples pound. He spotted bunches of it in a small glass vase and the remnants of some strewn across a tiny vanity table. Harriet likely used the plant in place of perfume.
The curtains were almost fully drawn and a tallow candle billowed ugly gray smoke in one corner. Many would not believe him, but he’d never actually set foot in a whore’s room before this moment, and he did not regret that decision now.
Harriet shut the door and rested against it, revealing her leg between the slit of a gauzy wrap. She pursed painted lips and looked at him from under her lashes. She was not unattractive with red hair, a sharp jaw, and wide blue eyes, but fatigue painted itself under her eyes and the ridges of her collar bone and chest hinted at many a day with no food.
He stepped back from her when she neared and she huffed, setting her hands to her hips. “Do not be wasting my time, sir.”
“You wasted mine,” he pointed out.
“I would have remembered that.” She flashed a wicked grin.
“The meeting?” he reminded her. “No one was there.”
“Well, that wasn’t my fault.” She tugged on a long curl and twisted it around her finger again and again. “I only told you what I knew.”
“You told me wrong.”
“I’m no liar,” she protested.
“Then tell me what else you know.”
Rolling her eyes, she strolled past him, sank on
to the spindly chair in front of the vanity, pulled out a tiny pot of stain and dabbed it upon her cheeks. “If anyone finds out I’m talking to you...”
“You know I can pay well.”
She twisted, hand to the back of the cane chair. “I do.” Gnawing on her bottom lip, she set down the stain and wiped her fingers on the sleeve of her wrap. “I don’t know why no one was there but I do know that Mr. Foster is in trouble with those men. I overheard them talking about what they’d have to do to him and how they would get to him. I think he’d been avoiding them and Newman—the owner— is furious. He must owe them money—more than he already has.”
“Did they say anything else?”
Harriet shrugged. “All I know is that they’ll be getting it back one way or another and Mr. Foster would be a fool not to repay them. Everyone knows how dangerous those men are. Still, he’ll probably have more than enough money to spare soon.”
Blake frowned. His aunt’s inheritance had already been distributed and he couldn’t think where else Foster would get money from or why he didn’t have enough, though a lot of Iris’s wealth would be tied up in investments or belongings. He’d wager Newman wouldn’t care where the money was, so long as he got it.
“How is that?” he pressed.
“Word is, he’s got his eye on some rich, desperate spinster. Once he marries her, he’ll have more than enough money to pay back Newman and his friends.”
A chill swept through his body, freezing his heart solid. It didn’t take a quick mind like Demeter’s to figure out who his cousin was in pursuit of.
“Damn it.”
Before he raced out of the room, Harriet clicked her fingers. “Payment!” she shouted after him. “You owe me.”
Cursing under his breath, he fished out a fistful of coins, not bothering to count them and dumped them on the vanity table. Then he marched out of the room. Foster would marry Demeter over his dead body.
Wagers of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 3) Page 12