Lady Be Good

by Meredith Duran

  But he would not take her there unless necessary, for placing her with his family would compound the danger to her. Bolkhov had no way, yet, to know what she had become to him. Once he put her with his mother and sister, there could be no doubt. She would be just as vulnerable as they were.

  She still had not replied. He grasped her by the shoulders, not caring if he frightened her now. “Give me your goddamned word.”

  “You have it,” she said, almost soundless. “But first . . .”

  A strange laugh escaped him. Did she imagine she would have to force him to it? “Lily,” he said. A flower whose bulb nestled deep in the ground, where one never thought to look for it. Of course that was her name. She had taken him by surprise. He had never expected this.

  He hooked his hand in her hair, pulled up her face, and looked into her pale, fearless beauty before he kissed her.

  In the morning, she would be gone from his life. But in the meantime, God help him, he would pretend that she was his. That he had seen her waiting at a window in some tower, and slayed dragons to win her, and claimed her by right, and made that tower his home.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. The light from the hearth painted her in rippling tones of fire. The smooth slope of her shoulder. The wide blue pools of her eyes. The fullness of her lips, which she pressed together to hide how they trembled.

  There was no cause to hide that from him. He leaned down to kiss her lips apart, to lick and suck them. “Tremble,” he murmured. “As much as you like.”

  Her small sigh seemed flavored by relief. Her arms came eagerly around his shoulders as she drew him atop her. He felt the fleeting urge to smile. Did she imagine he would retreat now? He kissed her deeply, hard, to show her his intentions.

  She took his tongue, drew it deeper into her mouth. Her hands slipped to his waist, her grip tightening.

  The thin robe translated every swell and curve of her. Her slim waist, the delicate point of her elbow. The bloody bastard had grabbed her there—

  He gritted his teeth and sat back, away from that thought, as he ripped off his clothing. He caught her hands when she tried to pull him toward her, holding them firmly. “Shh,” he said. Then he picked her up by the waist. Her weight—the lightness of it—briefly disconcerted him. Her rich low voice, the ferocity of her spirit—it should have made her as solid and heavy as an anchor.

  He laid her down again, on a cushion of pillows, bracing himself on an elbow above her. The picture of her, passive and tousled beneath him, a slight amazed smile flirting bashfully with her lips, deserved trumpets—the adulation of crowds.

  But she was his. Only for his eyes. His, alone.

  For now.

  “Touch me,” she whispered. Innocent. Mistaking his pause for uncertainty, rather than an inward battle against this savage possessiveness.

  “I will,” he said very quietly. But he would portion that pleasure out in small bits. Otherwise he would devour her without care or regard.

  He started with her hair, running his fingertips lightly down the braid that spilled over her shoulder and swung off the bed. A single ribbon secured it. He pulled one end, and watched her hair slowly untwist.

  He ran his fingers through it, drawing the thick locks over her breast. Her eyes fluttered shut. She liked this.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair at her scalp, massing, tugging, and then spreading the strands out in all directions. She groaned beneath his strokes. Arched upward, like a cat being petted. His eyes fixed on the point where her robe caught on the twin peaks of her stiffened nipples.

  He slipped one hand beneath her back, feeling his way down to the sash, slipping it free. She made a delighted noise and rolled toward him. The robe slipped off her, revealing small but perfectly shaped breasts, nipples pink and proudly pebbled. Her beauty pierced him like strong sunlight, burning him clean.

  He cupped her breast in his hand. Tested its weight. She shivered. “Clever hands,” she whispered. “You would have made a fine thief.”

  Did she not know he was thieving right now? Taking what did not belong to him. He wanted . . . not only her body but the future she would forge for herself, with the same wit and fearless initiative she had shown him so many times. He wanted her at his side. At his back. To love a woman and to depend on her courage were two different things. But she would offer them both, to the man she married.

  To hell with the goddamned butcher.

  It was a dark thought, ugly as bloodlust. He did not want to dwell on it when he might dwell on her. He leaned down and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

  She gasped, wrapping his head in her arms, pulling him against her. Her shudders strengthened as he suckled her, ebbed as he drew away to blow lightly on her skin.

  He pinned her arms over her head as he kissed her deeply. She had thrown herself in danger’s path for him. That was his sin to bear. She should never have needed to carry a knife, at his side. Harm would never come to her again on his count. Everything he did henceforth would ensure it.

  He kissed her wrists, then reached down to knock free the last clasp of the robe at her hips. She could guard herself from the world, but she never need do so with him. He pushed apart her legs, so she lay splayed and bare before him.

  She made an awkward noise—a protest, swallowed. He wrenched his gaze to her face, and found her blushing and unable to meet his eyes.

  “You are beautiful,” he said. He bent to kiss her plump inner thigh. He licked the salt from the crease of her leg.

  She squeaked. “This is . . . French.”

  “Not yet.” He breathed deeply of her, musk and ambrosia and every secret note that no aphrodisiac had yet managed to capture. With his tongue he trailed a path down to her knee. It was dimpled, a realization that unseated something inside him. So much left to discover, and no time. Ambition and panic twisted inside him. No time to waste. He could revisit her knees later.

  He licked back up her thighs and then, giving her no warning, parted her quim with his thumbs.

  Her hips jerked. Shy, she tried to close her legs. He moved his knee, holding her thighs apart. She would not hide from him.

  Her eyes found his, wide and dazed. He offered her a fierce smile, then lowered his head and licked her.

  Her stifled cry felt like a hand tightening on his cock. Yes. He tasted her, licked into her, penetrated her with his tongue. Prepared her for his fingers, which he slid into her with great care as he kissed upward to her clitoris, that small throbbing knot that he teased and sucked as he felt her channel grow wet.

  He had dreamed of this. Had dreamed of the noises she would make when he made love to her with his mouth. But the reality—her twitching, thrashing, murmuring pleasure, her scent, the softness of her restless thighs as they closed around his head—was beyond . . . anything.

  Lust, rage, hunger, all the primitive desires were not so different from each other. Conquer. He sucked harder. Caught hold of her hips and pinned her down when she tried to resist her own pleasure. “Too much,” she gasped. Which was exactly right. He laved her again and again. Accept this.

  He felt the spasms take her. She tightened around his fingers, a fierce clutching rhythm that made him swallow in triumph. Her hips jerked in his grip. He reached down to grasp himself. Paused over her, wrestling with his restraint.

  Her hand closed on his cock. “Now,” she whispered.

  His need was red and dark and merciless. He fitted his cock to her opening, tight, moist, hot, soft—ah, God; he caught her stifled gasp in his mouth as he slowly pushed into her.

  The shock went bone deep as he looked into her eyes.

  Mine.

  No. He closed his eyes, his mind, to the word, and began to rock into her; God in heaven he would not rush this, he would bring her to her peak again, he would—

  Her hips moved against his tentatively; then with some moaning murmur she caught the way of it, her hands digging into his sides, scraping down to his buttocks. She pulled him int
o the hilt, and he gasped.

  “Yes,” she said into his ear. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Lily.” That was all he could manage. And then, on a groan, on a wave of pleasure so intense that sparks formed in the darkness behind his eyes, he was lost. He ripped himself away from her, spilling his seed safely.

  Lost.

  Her arms came around him, drawing him back.

  He was not lost yet. Not until she let him go.

  The next morning at half ten, the stable hands loaded the last of the luggage atop the hired carriage. Inside, as Lilah took her seat across from Miss Everleigh, she allowed herself a final look at the house. Once she had thought it monstrous. Now it seemed mythical, the scene of a fairy tale.

  She had learned a great deal in that house. And she had lost something there that could never be recovered. She was glad of it, fiercely. Regretless.

  Only . . . what if she could not help him? What if Nick refused her offer? What if this madman murdered him? What if—

  She could not bear to look at the house a moment longer. She would start searching the windows for a glimpse of him. “We should go,” she said to Miss Everleigh. Overhead, the clouds were gathering into a great bruised knot. A robin winged by, breast as red as a warning as he fled from the storm.

  “Yes, quite right.” The lingering effects of the wine made Miss Everleigh look sallow and ill. But she, too, seemed entranced by the house, gazing out with shadowed eyes until the carriage turned into the trees and took them out of view.

  When they joined the main road, the jostling made Miss Everleigh groan and clutch her head. Lilah held out a flask that Mrs. Barnes had filled with tea. “It will help.”

  Miss Everleigh waved it away. “Nothing will help,” she said bitterly, “unless it’s poison for my brother. This is the last time he will interfere with me. I promise you that.”

  Lilah sat back against the cushions. It felt relieving, somehow, to be presented with such clear-cut rage. She herself was an inward stew of murky, churning emotion; anger was far easier to manage. “You can’t reason with men,” she said. “The bulk of them think us puppets, who dance for their amusement. And even when they do care for us, they think of us as fragile dolls, best kept on a high shelf lest we somehow get broken.”

  Miss Everleigh looked at her so queerly that for a moment she thought she’d overstepped, and braced herself for a scolding.

  But it seemed that their drunken camaraderie had wrought a change. “I don’t intend to reason with him.” Miss Everleigh opened her reticule to retrieve a vial of powder. “Give me that flask. I’m fixing my head.”

  “What is that?”

  “Powdered willow bark. Doesn’t your head ache?” She dumped the powder into the flask, shook it vigorously, and then pinched her nose as she took a long swallow. “I will never drink again.”

  Lilah allowed herself a smile. “Not until you’re offered a good bottle of Château Lafeet.”

  “Lafite Gilet.” Miss Everleigh made a chiding tsk. “We must find you a proper French tutor. You will not advance without a grasp of the language—or at the very least, a knowledge of the pronunciation.” She offered a wry smile.

  Lilah did not know whether to take her seriously. “I would adore to learn it.”

  “We will call it an exchange of services, then. You will teach me to type. I will procure you a tutor.”

  “Truly?”

  The other woman arched a brow. “Do you not find it a fair bargain? Shall I revise it?”

  “I find it quite splendid!” The only good news she’d had today. She caught herself as she glanced out the window. There was nothing to see through the oaks.

  “Of course, at this late age, it will be a hard road,” said Miss Everleigh. “Languages are best learned as a child. You cannot afford distractions.”

  “I mean to entertain none,” Lilah said in puzzlement. Was she being accused, in advance, of dillydallying? “If you fear that the lessons would interfere with my duties at the auction rooms—”

  “No. You misunderstand.” Miss Everleigh sighed. “You see, I don’t intend to reason with my brother. It’s pointless; I see that now. Instead, I mean to give him exactly what he wants.”

  Jarred by the change in topic, Lilah proceeded cautiously. “How is that, miss?”

  “First tell me this. Do you love him?”

  For a stupid moment, Lilah thought that she referred to Young Pete. And then her horror intensified as the truth dawned on her. “No.”

  “You do not love the viscount. I wish to be very clear on the matter.”

  Flustered, Lilah took the defensive stance. “I can’t imagine why you’d ask!”

  To her shock, Miss Everleigh blushed. “I do not make a practice of speculation. But at times, when I caught you looking at him—and sometimes the way you spoke of him had an air of . . .” She cleared her throat. “Well. It’s a simple question, no need to make it complicated. You love him or you don’t. Which is it?”

  Lilah felt her own face warming, a strange mix of panic and misery curdling her veins. Love? No. She did not even allow herself to think the word. “It would make me the greatest fool alive,” she said, “to reach so far above my station.”

  “Countless women have been fools of that kind.” Miss Everleigh did her the kindness of looking away to study the view. “I cannot claim to understand it. But I do gather it is a common weakness, and not worthy of . . . condemnation.”

  This was even greater generosity than the offer of a French tutor. It penetrated Lilah’s stormy mood like a struggling ray of light. Had they truly become friends? She could think of no other motive for this kindness. Miss Everleigh offered a salve for her pride, and a tacit promise not to judge her.

  “I will work very hard at French,” she said quietly. “I promise you, miss.” No matter what else happened, she would cling to the prospect of a true profession. It was her raft in the storm to come.

  “Good,” said Miss Everleigh. “I am glad to hear it, for your sake.” She stripped off her gloves, then held out the flask. “Straight from the bottle,” she said.

  Lilah took a deep breath. “Cheers,” she replied, and took a swig.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Help that bastard?” Nick gave her a disbelieving look. “Did you lose your mind, out in the country?”

  Lilah sighed. They were standing on the balcony at the House of Diamonds, Nick’s gambling club. She never liked to visit here. Below, at numerous tables scattered across the thick red carpet, men were throwing money away with an abandon that sickened her.

  But she’d written to Nick for five days in a row with no reply, and she’d had no luck ambushing him at Neddie’s, either. When he’d finally written to propose a meeting here, she’d been too relieved to quibble over details.

  “Just hear me out,” she said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Can’t think how,” he said. “Not unless you’ve got the crown jewels in your pocket.”

  She hadn’t expected this to be easy. Nick was the most stubborn man she’d ever met. He would not throw water on himself to put out a fire, if it meant following somebody else’s plan for him. “I know you don’t like him. And I know you’ve no cause to do favors for me. But I’ve come anyway. Please hear me out.”

  He frowned, then gave her a long, encompassing glance, his gray eyes sharp. “You look right tired, Lily. You feeling all right?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just the lighting.” The glare of the electric chandeliers made everybody look sallow.

  “Modernity isn’t pretty,” he said. “Adds some glamor, though.”

  She nodded. In truth, she was exhausted; she’d barely slept since returning to London. But she knew better than to admit to Nick that she’d been tossing and turning with worry for a toff. “Can we speak somewhere private? It’s very loud in here.” The crowd below wore evening finery, but disported themselves as raucously as brawlers at a gin palace.

  “Sweet music of the dice,
” Nick said. But he pushed himself off the railing, leading her with springing steps down the balcony to an unmarked door.

  He had redecorated his office since her last visit. Dark, striped paper covered the walls. The tasteful Smyrna carpet would have won Miss Everleigh’s approval.

  She took a seat in the wing chair that faced the desk. The grain of the leather slid like butter beneath her fingers. “You’re doing very well.” Nick disliked being instructed, but he wasn’t immune to flattery.

  He dropped into the seat opposite, grinning as he shoved aside a ledger. “Can’t complain. You see the archbishop down there, at the poker table?” He snorted. “Calls himself Thomas Duckle at the door, as if we’ve never seen a bloody newspaper.”

  That door—the famous red door, which admitted wealthy ne’er-do-wells at all hours—stood open thanks to Nick’s generous bribes. Gambling had been declared illegal, but he had the police in his pocket, and several politicians, too. The only group he did not bother to placate were the moralists, whose furious editorials had offered the House of Diamonds a great deal of free advertising over the past few years.

  “Congratulations,” she murmured. “Perhaps Mr. Duckle will sell you a place in heaven.”

  “Oh, I’ve got better uses for my coin than that,” he said with a wink. He folded his hands together atop the desk, flexing his wrists so his rings rapped the wood. “You bring those letters? Or is Palmer still lording them over you?”

  “He gave them to me for nothing.”

  He frowned. “Right he did.”

  That cynical tone made her sit straighter. “It’s true,” she said fiercely. “He asked nothing for them. He gave them to me from kindness.” To get me free of you, she did not add.

  He sat back, smiling faintly. The gambling house had a strict dress code, which Nick always followed when resident. In his formal black suit and crisply starched cravat, he looked almost lordly. “Sounds about right, then. It’s a fool who’ll give away what he could name a price for.”