by Lavinia Kent
He pulled her hand down, pressing it against his hard and straining cock. Oh, perhaps he was not tired at all. It had been his stamina that she had noticed first about him. Well, that and the dragon.
She wrapped her fingers tight and began a rhythmic stroke, his hand still clasped around hers helping to set the pace.
“I think I might still have another round or two left in me, my pirate queen. That is if you don’t mind a simple hard fast one. I am rather in the mood for simplicity.”
“I’d hate to disappoint you,” she replied, speeding the stroke.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s possible,” he answered, bringing his lips down on hers, covering her with his body as he rose above her.
—
What time was it? Ruby opened her eyes and peered out into the near-dark. Only a single candle flamed, and it sputtered and danced, the smell of burning wax heavy in the air. She pushed up on her elbow, trying hard not to shift the heavy body beside her. Her body ached and protested as she moved. He’d used her well in the hours they’d been together—and she’d used him quite well herself. She wasn’t sure how many times they’d come together—although that would all depend on your definition of certain events.
In any case, the man deserved his sleep. She slipped from the bed, drawing the white shirt around her. It was surprising that it still clung to her shoulders. Most nightclothes were lost long before the end of the first encounter, much less by the fifth or sixth simple fucking. If the man thought what he did was simple, she’d like to see complex.
Her feet landed on the cold boards of the floor, and with great care she pulled a quilt up over Derek’s slumbering form. She should find her shoes, but it would be near-impossible. At least they were not memorable, simple kid slippers. No one finding them would know to connect them with her. Her gown and chemise were easy to find and she gathered them quickly, holding them tight to her chest.
What time was it? With no window, it was impossible to tell. Once the candle sputtered out the room would be completely dark. Sometimes that could be a fun fantasy in and of itself, but this was not the time for that—although the thought of climbing all over that rock-hard body with only taste and sensation to guide her…
No.
She could not risk being found here. Simms might guess that she had spent the night here with the captain, but he would never say anything, not even if you threatened to spill red wine on his crisp white linens, or to force him outdoors in a wrinkled coat. The man was as meticulous as any gentleman’s valet, but that same sense of detail applied to his discretion. He would never whisper a word that might link her to the events of this night.
The same did not apply to some of her girls. They might mean well, but secrets slipped from their lips like raindrops slid down a window.
With one last look at Derek, she opened the door the slightest crack and peered out. The hall was empty, not a sound echoing, no click of heel or drunken laughter. It was possible some of the maids were sneaking about, ready to change used linen and light fires as needed, but if she was careful she should be safe.
Her bare toes dug into the thick carpet of the hallway. Quiet step by quiet step, she slid down the hall and to the stairs that led to her room. Another moment and she was there.
She shut the door behind her and pulled in a deep breath before walking to the window. Half-light reigned outside, that magical moment between night and day. Time had slipped by too fast. It was well past when she would have risen most Sunday mornings, needing to depart from the house and change before it was time to meet her grandmother for service. Still, if she hurried she should make it.
Grabbing the simple blue walking dress she began each Sunday in, she lay it across the bed and then walked to the mirrored washstand.
What a mess. The wig was no longer centered properly on her head and her kohl and rouge were smeared over half her face. Granted, Derek had not seemed to mind—but then he shouldn’t, as he’d caused the havoc.
First, she pulled the sapphire bobs from her ears and set them on their little tray, then, undoing the clips that held the wig to her scalp, she pulled it loose.
What relief. There was no better moment in her day than that moment of delicious freedom that came from the removal of all that weight and heat. A few quick twists and she freed her own hair from the braids that held it flat beneath the wig. Her own light-blond curls fell soft about her flushed face. They lacked their normal bounce and shine, lying sweaty and lank. Well, there was no time for a proper washing, but if she braided them neat and tight her grandmother would simply think she looked demure.
Grabbing a cloth from beside the bowl, she wet it and scrubbed at her face, leaving the cloth lined with black and red.
And there was Emma—but only for the briefest of moments.
Ruby grabbed the dress from her bed, pulling it over her head and drawing the laces tight with practiced skill. Then she grabbed the deep-brimmed bonnet and placed it over her still-mussed hair. Normally she spent more time making sure that anyone who looked closely would see Ruby leaving, but today the bonnet would have to provide enough disguise. Someone would have to be within a mere foot of her to see up under the long brim. It would have to do.
Grabbing a shawl and a reticule, she made her way out of the house.
—
The room was pitch dark. Derek could smell the gutted candles, but no light remained. He reached across the bed. Empty. It was just as well. He had things to do, things he might already be late for, and he needed no further delay—and Ruby and her lush, warm body would certainly have been a delay. His cock stiffened at even the hint of that thought.
What time was it? Even in the bowels of a ship, he’d never experienced such darkness.
He pushed back the quilt and stretched.
He needed to get moving. It was certainly later than he wanted and there was so much to be done, things that should have been done before he’d searched out Ruby, but he’d been unable to resist.
His soon-to-be fiancée would be arriving in a few days and he’d promised to be sure all was ready.
If only the thought brought a degree of joy instead of dread.
Anne was a nice enough girl and certainly pretty. He should be pleased that his uncertain future had taken such a turn. A rich and attractive wife, what more could an honest man want?
Ruby.
The thought flashed into his mind and there was no stopping it.
He didn’t want a wife. He wanted Ruby—and for more than a night.
Slipping from the bed, he felt his way to the door and yelled for new candles. He’d long ago learned that life must be faced and that wanting something was not enough.
He might want Ruby. But he did not need her.
Chapter 7
Emma sat in the church and listened to the prayers being said all around her. She mouthed the words quietly, not out of any lack of belief, but because her thoughts would not be stilled.
Her grandmother sat beside her, stern and stiff, but also loving. It was amazing how even when the woman chided her, Emma could feel the love that surrounded her. And there had been no guarantee it would be that way.
Tatiana Scanton, Emma’s mother, had been disowned, tossed from the family, when she chose to love the wealthy, handsome—and very married—Duke of Scarlett. She’d never been forgiven for choosing to live in sin as the duke’s mistress, and she’d certainly never been forgiven for bearing a child without benefit of matrimony.
But from the moment of Emma’s birth, her grandparents had always welcomed her. It could be awkward walking across the street to their house, her mother never following, but without her grandparents she was not sure she would have survived her mother’s death and her father’s curt dismissal. The Scantons’ open arms had been her place of security—even if they, too, had their own limited fashion.
They didn’t know what she did or how she made her living. They believed, or at least pretended to believe, that Emma worked as a co
mpanion to an elderly lady. Emma was allowed her once-a-week visits for services and dinner—although she was introduced as a distant cousin, her illegitimacy hidden.
She loved those few hours surrounded by family, even if she understood the rules and knew that the occasional hint would fall from her grandmother’s lips that she should find a good man and settle down. It was impossible to ask what type of good man would ever propose to Madame Rouge. For the hours she was with her grandmother, she was simply Emma Scanton and no other.
At long last, the service came to an end. Emma felt a small twinge of guilt. Normally she enjoyed this quiet, peaceful time, but today her mind had been restless, unable to settle.
“What is with you this day?” her grandmother asked.
“If I say I had a late night you will think the worst.” And you would be right.
Her grandmother pursed her lips. “Why do you not just decide to settle down? I am sure that a pretty girl like you could find a husband. Or you know your grandfather and I would be pleased to have you come live with us.”
There was no good reply to that. How could she say that she wanted freedom, that she was no longer prepared to sit happily and stitch and draw, that she wanted so much more in life? Even when her grandfather had gone against all his masculine impulses and allowed her to help with the accounts it had not been enough. Maybe if he let her run the whole business…? She was a good businesswoman. She could run the company as well as any man—and there was no other heir. Not that sweet cousin Emma from somewhere north would ever be considered the heir—well, at least not unless she married a suitable man and then he could take over the business.
“You are very quiet, child,” Grandmother said. “Are you thinking about my offer?”
“I always consider what you say very carefully.” And she did. She just knew it could never be the life for her.
“I am not sure that you do. I only want the best for you, Emma.”
Emma wrapped her shawl tight about her shoulders. These talks always left her feeling more exposed than actually being naked. “I know you do.”
“Come. Let us get home. I know your grandfather will be wanting his dinner. Cook has a nice joint roasting and there may be a chicken, as well. And I believe she’s made a sticky pudding for dessert. I know you love that. And afterward, Edmund has said, he may take you down to the warehouses to oversee the inventory. There’s a new shipment of silk from Lyon and your grandfather hinted at some treasure from Venice. It hasn’t even been removed from the canvas yet.”
Sticky pudding and a trip to the warehouse—her grandmother did know her well. Sticky pudding had never been served at the duke’s house and there was nothing as appealing as being surrounded by endless bolts of fabric and getting to count them. It appealed to just about every piece of her.
She took her grandmother’s arm and they began the short walk home. Did she actually think of the place as home? For these few short hours each Sunday, she did. Silence held as they strolled through the late-summer air. The few trees were already taking on the dried-out look of early fall. There would not be many more days that brought perspiration to lips and made her wish she’d left the shawl behind—not that she would ever leave the shawl behind when strolling with her grandmother.
—
Derek ran the razor over his chin, banishing stubble along with the memory of rubbing against Ruby’s tender thighs. It was daylight now, time to put dreams away and deal with what must be. He had much to accomplish this day, merchants to visit and final plans for his journey to be made.
Anne would be arriving in two days’ time and two days after that would be the ball to announce their betrothal. It should have been announced in Manchester, but Anne had been adamant that she wanted her party in London—and as her brother’s wife was hosting a ball, the timing should be perfect.
And then the reading of the banns and the fastest possible wedding. He was overdue for returning home to Rhode Island.
He should have pressed for an earlier date, gotten all the details ironed out, but in truth the delay had been a respite, another few weeks before he was forced to be the good son he had promised to become.
He drew the razor down his neck.
Only now the day was here, or almost here. And he still wasn’t ready.
But that would not stop him. A man did what he must.
His mind filled with the image of Ruby, lying back on the pillows, her hair spread wide, her eyes closed in contentment. But, that was not life, that was a dream.
There was no future with Madame Rouge. She was a creature of the night—and despite their recent encounters he was definitely a man of the daylight hours, up early and working hard until night brought rest and sleep.
There could be nothing between them—at least not anything more than…
—
Emma stood in the middle of the large warehouse and smiled, a true smile, a genuine smile. The high shelves rose all about her, fabrics and notions stacked high. Some were covered in canvas or plain linen, others, the cheaper ones, left open to the eye. Was it strange that there was nowhere she was happier than standing in the midst of unopened boxes and bolts of fabric? She wanted to twirl—and neither Emma nor Ruby would ever be caught twirling.
Something in the thought caught her and held her. Emma and Ruby. They both belonged here, not that she could ever say that to her grandfather. Emma was here by right of birth, from the time she’d been a small child this had been a place of magic and wonder. Was there any joy greater than watching as the canvas cover was pulled back and she got the first peek at the wondrous treasures within? Silks, velvets, brocades, it didn’t matter what. The excitement lay in that moment of anticipation, in waiting as the rough fabric was drawn back and the secrets within revealed. She loved to feel the fabrics, to imagine them draping sleek figures, or furnishing the fine homes of Mayfair. She knew instinctively what fabric belonged where. She’d learned such skill at her mother’s knee. A woman could not survive long as a well-placed mistress if she didn’t know how to dress and how to make her protector as comfortable as he was at home. More comfortable.
And that was only the fabrics. She couldn’t even think of opening the boxes of trinkets and notions, seed pearls and brass buttons, tiny crystals and ostrich plumes, without her toes curling.
And what of Ruby? Ruby opened each box and knew the price within a few shillings, both what she would pay for it and what she would sell it for. She instantly knew the profit difference between selling buttons to a market stall or to one of London’s more famous modistes. And the price could go either way, depending on favors owed and who needed to be persuaded to buy that shipment of slightly off-color muslin.
And Ruby knew how to sell, not that she ever got the chance here. Emma would stand in a corner, quiet and demure, while her grandfather talked to merchants and shippers. Sometimes she’d longed to step forward, to twitch her hips and smile, to convince the men that they needed far more than they were ordering, but she didn’t. She stood still, eyes downcast.
The desire to twirl left her. Both her selves loved it here, but neither was truly allowed freedom. Her grandfather knew that bringing her here was a treat, an indulgence, and he did love to make her happy—but that didn’t mean he listened to her opinions or let her make decisions.
No, the only help he wanted was in overlooking the accounts, and even then it was simply checking the arithmetic. His eyes were not what they had been and he didn’t want to be seen making a careless mistake.
Perhaps if he had offered Emma more, Ruby would never have come to be.
But then again, perhaps she would have. Her grandfather had never known the full story of what had led to the creation of Madame Rouge, and she could only hope that he never would. Emma would have been banished as quickly as her mother had if he’d ever known what happened with Lord Percy.
Yes, she had love here, but also rules and conditions—rules that were never to be broken.
“Come, Emma
. This is what I wanted you to see. I hope it is all that we imagine.”
Emma stopped her musing, placed an appropriate expression on her face, and walked over to her grandfather. “Is this the shipment from Venice?”
“So your grandmother told you, did she? She never could keep a secret.”
With a slightly more honest, indulgent smile, Emma placed a hand on her grandfather’s arm. “Let me see—and tell me what exactly I am looking at.”
“Velvet ordered by the Medici. One of my suppliers found it in his attics. He doesn’t know if it was never delivered or refused for some reason, but he promises I will be pleased.” He gestured to his assistant, who carefully began to draw back the oilcloth and then the inner canvas and linen covers.
She gasped. Red. But red such as she had never seen, a thousand shades and yet one. A fabulous brocade shot through with gold, the fabric looked like it should drape a queen or an empress, and yet Emma could imagine Madame Rouge walking in the room in such a dress, her every movement a work of art. She’d love for Derek to…
She stopped the thought right there.
Derek did not belong here. He barely belonged with her when she was Ruby. He had no place with Emma, even if she had given him a hint of her on their first night those months ago.
“Who do you think we should sell it to?” her grandfather asked.
She knew it wasn’t truly a question. There could be only one answer. “The regent. Perhaps he’ll save it for his coronation robes. It is certainly fitting for such an occasion.”
“We will have to open the whole bolt and examine it with great care. There may be a reason it was shut away for so long. I cannot believe it was simply forgotten.”
Emma rubbed the luxurious cloth again. It was hard to imagine forgetting it, but she knew how many things could be set aside and never taken out again. “Why don’t you have it spread and I will help you examine it? Hopefully it will be perfect all the way through. It is a wonder that moths and mold have not damaged it in any way.”