Clasping her hand, he stilled her exploration. “Of course you are curious. So am I. There are many sweet and silky places I have not yet discovered. What if I . . .” He leaned over to kiss a charming spot below her ear, but stopped when she stiffened.
A quick glance at Violet’s face, and Arthur cursed himself for his stupidity. Tiny question marks appeared at the corner of her mouth; her confidence had ebbed. He couldn’t tell her that pleasure must be mutual, then push her away.
“Who am I to deny a scientist her discoveries?” he asked, and released her. Her squeak of delight made him laugh out loud and turn them both until she rested atop him. He’d hoped to hold this piece of himself apart from her so it wouldn’t hurt so much when he left.
For Violet’s sake, he welcomed the pain.
When she opened his trousers and pulled him free, he almost came at the sight of her work-worn hands on the column of flesh. Any other woman of her station would hide the scars and imperfections. On her, they were a badge of honor, a symbol of how hard she toiled and to what end. They were rough and unsteady, and he had never experienced anything so erotic. She crouched over his shins, wrapping those fascinating fingers around the base of his cock, and stroked him.
“Perfect,” he assured her. “Just right,” he praised. The words spilled from his lips in an effort to light her from the inside.
The entire world disappeared.
All that remained was this bed and this woman and the way she watched him as she leaned over and set the tip of his cock between her damp lips. Then even she disappeared, because his eyes could not be open at the same time his focus centered on her sucking him. Her palms strong and warm around him, she pulled and twisted with measured, torturous strokes. Arthur’s entire body came alive, every inch of his skin awake to the smallest friction.
“Agh . . . uh . . .”
She was making speech an impossibility. His conscience was prodding him, however, so he managed to form an important question.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. It would kill him if she’d taken on this act out of a sense of obligation.
Her slick hands kept their rhythm as she stared at him, lips swollen, hair in wild disarray.
“I have been longing for the taste of you on my tongue almost from the beginning, Arthur. I want this very much.”
Her words slammed into his stomach, and a surge of lust fired through his body. Reaching down, he held her hair taut and angled himself so that when she took him, he would see her expression. Her flush deepened, spreading from her cheeks to her chest.
The sensation was almost more than he could bear as he slid in and out. Lightning gathered at the base of his spine. He lost himself to the feel of flesh on flesh, the sight of her cheeks hollowing, and the sound of the wind hammering against the walls—until the pressure built too high, too fast, and the sky came crashing down.
It could have been seconds or hours—days?—later that Violet made her way back into his arms. He pulled the afghan over both of them, letting a spill of silky curls tumble across his chest. In an act almost painful in its intimacy, he ran his fingers through her unbound hair as she fell asleep.
Gently, so as not to wake her, Arthur pressed the curls to his nose, inhaling lemon drops and cordite—uniquely Violet.
Despite the discomfort of the sagging cushion and an elbow in his groin, it took forever to bring himself to slip from her arms and walk away. Better to leave before they pushed their luck.
This would only get harder the next time.
Because there would be a next time.
This connection between Violet and himself had a power that Arthur—a man who’d practiced twenty years of penitence—could not resist.
14
ARTHUR LEANED AGAINST the windowsill and watched as pale grey clouds bled into an indigo sky. Tiny pellets of snow tumbled into the corners of an alley, swept by brutal wintry winds.
Spring adamantly refused to take up residence in London this year, no doubt put off by the uncanny fogs, clammy tendrils of black and brown that turned the city into a warren of gloom.
By God, it was a beautiful morning.
He turned and took one last look at Violet’s workroom door, then ambled down a narrow back staircase, loose-limbed and at peace with the world. There could be hail the size of boulders and swarms of locusts outside, and it wouldn’t bother him.
Too early for Cook to be up. The kitchen boy still snored on his cot by the fire. Arthur hung a pot of water over the smoldering coals. A nice cup of strong tea would be just the thing.
Leaning his chair against the wall, he let his mind wander to the workroom upstairs, to where Violet lay tangled in her afghan on the sagging couch. So decadent and sweet were the images filling his head, he almost ignored a slight tickle at the back of his neck. The front legs of his chair hit the floor.
Something was off.
Arthur cocked his head and paid attention to the sounds around him. The boy snoring. The crackle of coals in the fireplace. A horse clopping on the street outside, its cart rumbling along behind it.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Except there was another sound as well, so low as to almost escape notice.
And a scent reminiscent of . . .
Behind him, boiling water began to hiss. Arthur was already dashing through the hallway connecting Beacon House with the club.
“Fire!” he bellowed, knocking on doors as he ran past. He’d set guards in the club. Where were they?
Pattering footsteps heralded a rapid approach.
“What the hell have you been doing?” he yelled. Except it wasn’t one of his men. Letty Fenley came racing around a corner, wearing one of the thick brown aprons used in the club’s laboratories.
“There is a fire in the storage cupboard,” she cried. “That’s where Lady Greycliff keeps her flammable supplies.”
At the same time, someone else came stomping down the stairs from the third floor. “I put away the canisters, but—” Caroline Pettigrew stopped in surprise. She was dressed like Letty, but her apron was a far sight messier, covered in grease and a slick, acrid-smelling substance.
“What are the two of you doing here at four o’clock in the morning?” Arthur demanded.
Surely someone must miss them. Letty Fenley was an unmarried young lady, daughter of a shopkeeper or no.
At last one of Arthur’s men made an appearance, hurtling down the stairs. “Third floor is clear, sir. I checked the rooms when the lady called, ‘Fire.’”
More men came running, and Arthur set aside the question of what Letty and Mrs. Pettigrew had been up to. He made his way to the fire, following Letty’s directions through the narrow warren of twisting hallways and tiny rooms.
Smoke billowed from under a closed door at the back of the building. Arthur called out orders to his men while trying to convince Letty to leave.
“Get to safety, Miss Fenley. We can manage a small fire,” he barked.
Holding buckets sloshing with water, Thomas, Winthram, and two other men came up the stairs and headed toward the closet.
“Wait!” Arthur called to them. “Lady Greycliff said something about this cabinet.” Precious seconds ticked past as Arthur tried to remember. “You need to fetch sand instead.”
“You remembered. Well done.”
Arthur’s stomach clenched at the sound of Violet’s voice. Masses of curls had escaped from her messy braid. The ragged hem of her robe almost tripped her up as she pushed the locks from her face.
An icy shiver lifted the hairs on his arms as he remembered ripping open the back of her nightgown. What the devil was she wearing beneath her robe now?
The cool, calm part of his brain that was tasked with keeping everyone alive directed the servants to open the windows at either end of the corridor.
The red-hot animal part of his brain was consumed wi
th the image of Violet naked beneath her robe.
Arthur could not stop from reaching out an arm to pull her away from the heat of the fire. She shivered beneath his touch, but her manner remained bright and determined, and her voice was steady over the hubbub.
“Winthram, there is a bucket of sand in the room next door. Show the men to laboratories three, six, seven, and nine,” she said. “There are buckets in there as well.”
A tarlike stench emanated from the storage cupboard, where an inverted waterfall of blackness rolled out from the bottom and sides of the door. While Letty helped the footmen open the windows, Mrs. Pettigrew edged away from the chaos.
Arthur blocked her escape. “Why were you here so late at night?” he said.
“I am at a critical part of my work. I was in the common area to make a cup of tea when I smelled something burning.” She was nervous, her glance darting between Letty and Violet.
“Haven’t you perfected the aerosol delivery system? What more was there to do?”
“Caroline,” Letty called, “I could use your help over here.”
The woman darted clear of Arthur, and he made no protest. Time enough to question her once the fire was out.
Arthur approached the first footman to sound the alarm. “Did you see anyone on this floor?” he asked him.
“No, sir.”
Damn. Someone must have seen something.
He turned to Winthram. “Where were you?” he asked.
“I locked the outside doors at two thirty, like always,” the doorman said, one hand half raised as if to protect himself from Arthur’s frustration. “Then I did my last round—”
Thomas and the other footmen returned with the sand just then. Violet took charge of them, explaining what to expect. Smoke was rising past their knees, flowing along the sides of the corridor, making its way into each of the open rooms.
“Do not try to save the contents of the cupboard at the expense of your safety,” she told them. “This may do damage to your lungs.”
They opened the door and a mushroom of smoke burst out, curled into a giant wave, then fell to the floor as if it were trying to hide from them. The footmen began dousing each of the shelves with handfuls of sand.
Arthur continued to question Winthram. “What time would you have walked past this corridor?”
“Two forty or thereabouts,” the doorman replied.
“Miss Fenley, where was she?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Her workroom is on the first floor.”
“She came down the stairs from this floor to warn us of the fire,” Arthur said. “What was she doing here then?”
They both fell silent, watching Letty and Mrs. Pettigrew handing out water-soaked cloths for the men to put over their mouths.
“Miss Fenley is one of Lady Greycliff’s best friends,” Winthram whispered.
“Friends are like tin farthings,” Arthur observed. “Two-faced and easy to manipulate.”
Winthram’s shoulders drooped. “Suppose you don’t make many friends in your work.”
Arthur regarded the man beside him, then returned his scrutiny to Letty. “Friendship requires trust. Trust is easy to shatter and near-impossible to fix once broken.”
“Aye, that’s true.” Winthram adopted a knowing air, but he couldn’t fool Arthur. Winthram wanted to believe in the goodness of a man’s soul.
Violet bustled around praising the footmen, consoling Letty as to the state of the whitewash, and casting quick glances at Arthur.
“All will be well,” she said. “Is that not correct, Mr. Kneland?”
He didn’t answer her question. The acrid stench of destruction burned the inside of his nose as he studied the scene.
Thomas took a position at Arthur’s side, fingers worrying his unshaven chin. “Whoever it was, they threw rocks at her windows to scare her off.”
“Aye. Next came the bomb on the second floor,” Arthur replied.
“Then a thief breaks in to steal the lady’s papers, and now someone sets out to destroy the materials she needs to finish the work,” Thomas concluded.
“What are you thinking?” Arthur asked.
The older man raised his brows and shifted his gaze to Letty. “The explosion and the broken windows. Those are grand gestures—noisy, like.”
“A show of intimidation,” Arthur said. “Not something a woman would think to do.”
“Could be,” Thomas said.
“You don’t have to pretend your good ideas are my ideas,” Arthur chided. “You’re better at reading people than me.”
“That’s because I like them,” Thomas pointed out.
Friends are like tin farthings.
Arthur pushed the thought out of his head. “The attempt at theft and the fire. Those are different?”
“Wasn’t for show,” Thomas said. “Had a purpose.”
“To stop Lady Greycliff from completing her work.”
Thomas nodded. “Someone knew she wouldn’t be intimidated by bricks and bombs. They could have set fire to her workrooms, but they didn’t. Someone took care that she wouldn’t be hurt.”
“Something a friend might do,” Arthur said.
“Better an open enemy than a false friend,” Thomas said.
Arthur couldn’t agree more.
15
ARTHUR READ A smudged copy of the Morning Chronicle while he sipped his tea. The kitchen was empty this time of the morning, and he relished the quiet.
In other households, he took his meals apart. Here, Mrs. Sweet had insisted he join the rest of the staff in the cheery kitchen. So much noise—laughter and easy banter, stories told and retold. He knew if life had been different, none of that would feel foreign. His parents had joked together at the table, and he remembered them having company, with a fiddler in the corner and a thick linen cloth to cover the scratched oak table.
Too long ago. No matter how hard Arthur tried, he could not stop listening beneath the noise for the whoosh of a blade or the click of a barrel being loaded.
Before the kitchen door opened, he had folded the newspaper and slipped his hand to a hidden pocket where he kept a knife.
Alice was backing into the room, using her hip to hold open the door, since she held a covered tray in both hands. She jumped and uttered a soft cry when she turned to see him sitting there.
“Good morning,” he said.
She lifted her chin in a regal manner—no doubt she’d been watching Lady Phoebe—and nodded with composure. “Good morning, sir.”
The accompanying sniff of disdain was masterful. Arthur opened his newspaper, covering his amusement with the smudged pages.
Who could blame her? He’d declined her friendly overtures in the last few weeks. He imagined Deoiridh having to work in London, far from home. If his wee sister were in Alice’s position, he knew a kind word would go a long way to warm the heart.
“Cold out,” he said.
Her eyebrow lifted like a fringed wing. “ ’Tis.”
Coals popped in the fireplace.
Arthur racked his brains for what to say. He never had difficulty talking to Violet. She was most animated when he asked her about her work. Should he try this with Alice?
“What is on that tray?” he asked.
“Tea for my lady,” she said curtly, emptying the tray onto the kitchen counter.
“Did she eat anything?”
Alice glanced at him, then away. “She didn’t. There’s nothing to tempt her with, either. Could do with a nice batch of black buns, but Mrs. Sweet won’t hear of it.”
On the counter was an untouched plate of what Mrs. Sweet called digestive biscuits and Thomas called “indigestives.”
When one fell off the counter, it bounced three times until it came to rest beneath the kitchen table.
“Well, since we
can’t eat them, I suppose I could load my pistol with them,” Arthur said. “They’re less costly than bullets.”
Alice turned in surprise. “Was that . . . Was that a joke, sir?”
He considered the question. “Was it funny?”
Alice approached the table, sucking in her bottom lip. “A little.”
“Then, yes, it was a joke.”
They regarded each other for a moment across the distance. A tiny smile pulled at the corner of Alice’s mouth. Arthur’s chest filled with pride. He could do this, after all.
“Black buns,” he said.
“Sir?”
“You . . . you mentioned black buns. Haven’t had one in years. I liked the way they smelled coming hot from the oven.”
Alice clasped her hands, eyes softening with remembrance. “My mam makes the worst black buns.”
“Does she now?” Arthur asked, confused.
Alice laughed. “Every time. No one knows why they taste so odd, when her tatties are heaven and her bread is so fine. One time, my da walked home from Inverness rather than stay one night longer away from her, and he teased her it was because he couldn’t live without the taste of her black buns.”
She sighed. “What do you miss about home?”
Arthur rubbed his chest while he considered his memories of Deoiridh, but he kept her tucked away for now. It frightened him how easily he’d shared her with Violet. What if he took the memories out too often and they began to fade?
“Well, I don’t miss parritch,” he said instead.
Alice giggled. “My brother Finlay hates it more than anything. One time . . .”
The maid shared stories of life with five brothers, a ferret, and two terriers while Arthur chuckled and inhaled the comforting smell of tea and onions.
Was the key to making friends the same as the secret to making Violet happy?
Accept people for who they are?
Just be present?
Seemed simple enough—unless you’d spent your life running away.
A Lady's Formula for Love Page 15